


Breaking Mind-Forged Manacles

by estel_of_the_eyrie



Series: Taking The Road Less Travelled By [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Adding information from the comics and other games, F/M, Gen, M/M, aseuxal character, bisexual representation, including some cameos, no beta we die like men, so much historical research and I am not sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estel_of_the_eyrie/pseuds/estel_of_the_eyrie
Summary: When Louise took up that internship with Abstergo, she never anticipated being launched into a world of conspiracies and survival she was not prepared for.She also did not expect it to leave her 150 years in the past. And what's this about Rooks? Aren't they just birds?
Relationships: Evie Frye & Jacob Frye, Evie Frye/Henry Green | Jayadeep Mir
Series: Taking The Road Less Travelled By [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740214
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> "I wander thro' each charter'd street,  
> Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.  
> And mark in every face I meet  
> Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
> 
> In every cry of every Man,  
> In every Infants cry of fear,  
> In every voice: in every ban,  
> The mind-forg'd manacles I hear "
> 
> ~ "London" by William Blake (1757-1827)

London was that kind of city where everything happens, but nothing happens at the same time. History bursting at every corner, excitement wherever you look. It’s one of the reasons Louise was  _ adamant  _ that she was going to study in the city or not at all. 

She’d visited once as a child, taken to see a show on the West End, and a light trip to the British Museum; everyone said that she’d changed then, that the spark of adventure had been brought into her, and never really left since then. 

Pre-university exams and A levels flew by, and she  _ soared  _ into a place at University College London in Zone 1 of the capital city. Whether it was racing to lectures (albeit slower for those devilish 9ams). Over twelve months later, the woman flourished in the urban atmosphere. The theatres, the parks, and the unpredictability of even the slightest changes in the timing of the Underground trains 

Just enough variety to keep her on her toes. But even that became predictable once you lived in its vicinity long enough. 

Wake up. Dress. Catch the tube and head to lectures. Lunch in the library. Or the park. Maybe a trip to the museum if her timetable allowed. Grab dinner from Gregg’s or McDonald’s or Subway, before societies in the evening. Assignment in between. 

Think about the future if you can. Remember to keep an eye on traffic as you cross the road. Don’t talk to anyone on the Tube. 

Friends? In the same boat as you. Drowning in deadlines and work placements, that  _ you  _ can never seem to find. 

Louise hadn’t been anticipating the email when it landed it in her university email inbox. The day had acted like any normal one (which is what they all say, but in the midst of exams and deadlines, can you  _ really  _ tell the difference in routine?). And it had very nearly been deleted, hidden among the automated announcements and society newsletters. 

It had been a passing comment in her semeter catch-up meeting with her tutor. Just a “What do you want to do with your life” discussion while she dodged questions about fieldwork and assignments, and  _ work experience _ . The degree required that she take  _ some  _ fieldwork to graduate - some universities required maybe a week or two. UCL required over  _ two months _ before her dissertation was completed, and she had barely managed those two weeks for the other locations. 

Louise had tried everywhere, but no museums were hiring and fewer still held her interests at heart. A question kept raising itself at the back of her mind: was she doing what was right for her? Should she just settle for an  _ actual  _ fieldwork placement as much as she disliked the thought? 

And then, a Holy Grail of an email came her way from out of almost nowhere. 

_ Hi Louise, _

_ Apologies for the short notice, but following our meeting a couple of weeks ago I put out the call to my colleagues to see if there were any possible work experience placements that might suit you. _

_ Just this morning actually, I received an email from a Professor Simon Hathaway at Abstergo. He’s the head of their Historical Research Department, world-renowned in fact!  _

_ Are you able to make it down to my office tomorrow morning for 9am? He’d love to meet you, and from the tone of his email, offer you a position over the winter holidays! _

_ Let me know if you’re interested. _

_ Allison _ .

She very nearly dropped her phone in shock. That request  _ wasn’t  _ intended to have a successful outcome, let alone someone from a well-known company like  _ Abstergo  _ of all places!

No 4G on the tube led to an anxious wait until she  _ could  _ reply. A hurried reply of trying to schedule a meeting between them, and Louise raced into her next lecture. Barely an hour, and a confirmation of an appointment with both Allison and Professor Simon Hathaway. Monday 9am in Allison’s Office. 

_ Would this be suitable for you? I can always ask to reschedule if you have a tutorial _ . The bottom of the email said. 

_ Allison,  _

_ That’s fantastic! Thank you for organising this for me. _

_ Luckily Monday is one of my quieter days, and my earliest lecture is at two.  _

_ I’ll be able to attend the date and time they’ve supplied,  _

_ See you Monday! _

Maddie, who had been sitting next to her the entire lecture (and not paying attention as usual) said she’d grinning like an idiot for the rest of the lecture after that. 

“Things are finally looking up,” was Louise’s reply. “Maybe this is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

* * *

The morning of her interview, she practically ran across two entire London Boroughs to get there. Louise would vehemently deny that she was nervous at the prospect of such an interview, that it was simply the adrenaline from her run. Rush hour was unkind to commuters, and it was quicker than waiting in lines of traffic in a cab. 

And it was a reasonably cool day, why  _ not  _ take some time? 

Although it did start to rain when she neared Euston Station, so she hurried just a  _ little  _ towards the end. 

Allison, rather than being in her office as Louise had expected, but instead waiting for her in the lobby of the archaeology department at quarter to nine. 

When the automatic doors whirred open, and the refreshing smell of petrichor flooded in, Allison turned with a sigh of relief. “There you are! Simon’s already here, so the interview will be starting as soon as we arrive rather than at nine.”

“That’s perfectly fine, I’d much rather get this over with.” Louise opened the first door and let her tutor guide the way. “How do you think he’s here so  _ early _ ?”

“Must have been lucky with the traffic. The email said he’d hope to arrive for nine. But Professor Hathaway arrived over ten minutes ago.”

“ _ Shit _ ,” Louise replied as they set off. “Have I kept him waiting long?”

Allison shook her head. “Not at all. He’s been telling me about the research he has planned, and I have to say: you are in for a  _ treat _ .” 

Luckily, her office was a ground-floor office, so with a few doors to open and corridors to pass through, they were finally there. The way was shut, and little sound came from inside. Mainly, it was the sound of dripping rain from outside and the whirring of ancient computer fans. 

Allison opened the door, a reassuring force right before the unknown of this contact from Abstergo. Though Louise was shorter than most at five-foot-three, Allison still barely matched that, but was over twice the student’s age. 

The office itself was reasonably cramped, one entire wall down its length had been overtaken by books, magazines, or academic journals. Stacks of them, half-opened, pages marked with any scrap, bled over onto the rest of the desk. Her laptop and elevated work station was lost beneath it all; she’d definitely been caught off guard that morning if Allison couldn’t already sit down and get to work organising herself for the day. 

“Ah, here we are!” Allison announced, and the man sitting in the chair turned to face them, rising to his feet as if royalty had walked in. “Professor Simon Hathaway, may I introduce Miss Louise Chase. Louise, meet Professor-”

The man chuckled and waved a hand to dismiss his introduction. “ _ Please _ , call me Simon.”

Simon Hathaway was not what she’d been expecting. For what she’d heard about the man, of his status and proverbial wealth, she had been expecting someone in their late 40s to early 50s, perhaps balding. The only thing she  _ had  _ got right was the umbrella at his side, for it was beginning to rain. 

Instead, here sat a man roughly a decade older than herself. He leaned back in his frankly uncomfortable office chair, ankle resting above his knee. He’d been staring at some of the paraphernalia placed around the room: faculty awards, photos of Allison’s wife and kids, excavations abroad. 

“What a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, holding his hand out. “Allison had just been telling me about the research modules you’ve been part of here at the university, and I am  _ most  _ intrigued by what you’ve been studying.”

“Of course. You must be very busy, so I’m grateful for you to make the trip.”

“It’s not a problem.  _ Really _ . Anything to bring some new life into the world of historical research. We’re glad to have you onboard.”

The grin was widening on her face, and she knew it looked somewhat goofy, so Louise merely returned a simple “thank you” and shook his hand. 

Allison shut the door while this continued. “If we’d all like to get seated and we can get a proper conversation underway, seeing as we’re hitting it off so well.” 

“So,” he gestured to the seat, and the trio sat. Allison held a chair somewhat level with Simon’s and they both faced Louise. The door remained behind her. Simon gestured to the tutor sitting beside him. “Allison tells me that you’re looking for some more research-based fieldwork experience. 

“Yeah; I want to be a historical consultant-slash-archivist. And good fieldwork in that regard is difficult to come by. I would much rather be knee-deep in books and texts than in a field.”

“That far  _ rarer  _ breed of archaeologist,” Allison quipped. 

“What inspired you to look into that as a career? Most people I know in the archaeology field -” he gestured to Allison “- seem to prefer being out in physical excavation, getting down and dirty. 

“ _ Westworld _ a little bit, the historical periods for parks you know? World War One poetry,  _ Lord of the Rings _ .  _ Pirates of Nightmares _ was a big one that led me into researching beyond myth and reality. A piece of everything really.”

Most people who found out that’s where she held her initial spark from typically deemed it far beyond their time. They’d much rather talk to the Oxbridge students inspired by classic excavations or a historical sight they visited on a trip. But Simon seemed invested. He nodded along as if she was speaking something sagely. And what’s more he  _ actually  _ asked about it instead of moving the conversation onwards. 

“Interesting. I particularly remember the far more  _ negative  _ reception that, so you have no idea how refreshing it is to hear some more positive consequences from this little enterprise.” He leaned forward in the chair. “Tell me: what aspects of the research did you enjoy? 

“Is it alright if I say all of it?” She laughed. “Well, I have a large interest in mythology. Greek and Roman, a  _ little  _ bit of Norse - I mean who wasn’t inspired to look into more after Chris Hemsworth was cast as Thor?”

“Or how about Anthony Hopkins as Odin?” 

She laughed. “God, you’re so right. How could we forget such an influence?”

Allison coughed, and all eyes were drawn to her. The laughter died away. “If we, uh, could keep this back on track?”

“Of course. It is my fault for getting so off-piste.” Simon resolved. He flashed a winning smile, and turned back to Louise. 

“But if I had to pick something specific, then I like the truth behind decades or centuries of people hiding it. Like queer readings of myths is one aspect - Achilles and Patroculus were almost definitely more than just friends - but when there’s been so much desire to hide perhaps  _ ugly  _ truths throughout peridos of history I find myself wanting to read between the lines and find it myself. We can’t assume that people all acted or loved or died the same, there’s going to be the subcultures out there, the cults who believed something different. Overlaps in thought during changes in leaderships or times of annexation for example.

“I also  _ adore  _ languages too, there’s just something about reading a text in old Norse or Hellenistic Greek that just  _ jumps  _ from the page for me. Makes all of these historical and archaeological events that happened centuries ago feel real. Museums can only teach you so much with words on a small piece of cards, and coins behind a plane of glass feels so detached to me. But words - they’re concrete evidence of an individual narrative. Somebody, at some point  _ had  _ to have felt something so strongly to put it to paper or slate. And I don’t think it matters whether it’s Aristophanes’ comedies, the record of the landing as Landnamabok or the Tommies’ diaries from the Western Front trenches there is something just so  _ human  _ and-”

He held his hand up, and she stopped her . Her hand went right to fidgeting with the bracelet around her wrist.  _ Oh god, what did I say wrong this time _ . 

“No need to look so nervous, this is a good thing I’m interrupting for. You must accept my apologies for doing so, but I think I have heard enough. I would like to offer you a short-term placement with Abstergo. There is a project announced rather recently that I think would be of great interest to you.”

“ _..what _ ?” she sat up straighter. “Are you  _ serious _ !”

“Oh yes. We have a short term project relating to Norse Mythology that I think you will be perfectly suited towards. None of your time with Abstergo will interrupt your hours in lecture or towards your assignments, so let’s say it occurs full time over the holiday and New Year period?”

Louise nodded along as Simon continued, not really sure if she should interrupt the deal he had going. 

“And you’ll be compensated for your time. You will be doing similar work to our employees so it’s only right that you are compensated just as an employee would.”

“Thank you  _ so  _ much, Mr Hathaway. That’s so kind of you.” 

“Not at all!” he laughed. The pair stood and shook hands. “I will email over more information once I let HR know, and confirm all the details by the end of the day.”

Louise left the room five minutes later, having been in that interview for almost forty-five minutes. The buzz of joy didn’t leave for the next  _ week _ . 

* * *

In true fashion, all the paperwork had been sent over by lunchtime on that same day, and completed in under an hour. Abstergo had kept Simon’s promises concerning the employment benefits, as well as some extras for her induction as a student. 

Simon had agreed to meet her in the lobby of their London location on her first day, and he did not disappoint; even when she was ten minutes early he was there waiting with a cup of tea, a warm smile, and her security pass to the building. He swooped her beneath his wings, presented a whistle-stop tour of the building and the team she would soon get to know. Louise was  _ captivated  _ by the labs and the sheer amount of information they held; original manuscripts from all periods of British history, and even beyond! One person had told her about their research into the Peloponnesian War, another the Renaissance.

The building was modern in design and surprisingly warm against the winter chills. She was still thankful for her purple turtleneck shirt when they visited the scientific research area: that felt cold for another reason, which she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 

But with all the excitement of the first day, and caffeine jitters, it was left behind. Louise’s smile remained genuine throughout the day, littered with friendly banter that she probably wouldn’t have expected from Hathaway if  _ he  _ hadn’t been the one to initiate it.

“Why Oxford?” he said. “Of course, I understand the allure of the Oxbridge studies, I myself went to Cambridge when I was your age; but  _ Oxford _ ?”

“I enjoyed the canals when I visited on the Open Day, and Lady Margaret Hall is utterly gorgeous. But I never really had much intention to study there.” she took a sip of tea as the elevator reached the next floor. “I just wanted to get through the application process, have that offer with my name on it, and prove people wrong. Working from spite is such an  _ underrated  _ motivator.”

“Not how I would have put it, but being determined is a skill that many appear to be lacking in the modern age.” 

The tour ended in Hathaway’s office, where he and the young woman sat down to discuss the official papers and rules to go with her internship. The office was  _ gorgeous _ , if completely different than Allsion’s. Where her tutor held cramped walls and a lack of funding, Simon held excessive floorspace and room to spare. As Louise turned to close the door she found the entire wall behind her a single bookcase, with its own sliding ladder. 

(Part of her wondered about a hidden room. It’s what all of the wealthy seemingly do in film. Maybe it’s  _ more books _ !)

“That’s a first edition  _ Hard Times  _ to your left,” a voice pointed out. “Given to me by my own university tutor as a graduating present.”

Simon had wandered over to the other side of the room, where his expensive metallic desk stood proudly. The computer to one side while the keyboard, notepads, and extensive trinkets from what must be excavations of deep value to him. But unlike Allison, his office had  _ no  _ photographs of someone who was not involved with Abstergo. No family photos anywhere. 

On the wall behind him, was a sword in a case. It was one of the many artefacts around the room, although one of the most well-preserved. A golden afterglow littered around it, foregrounded by the baby-blue skies behind and the unobstructed sun coming in through the windows. Other artefacts were littered elsewhere; another sword (in far poorer restoration), a flintlock pistol, and a bow she couldn’t place a location or time period to. 

“I’m afraid this is the part where I must become more serious about this enterprise, Louise. After all, this is a place of work, and each comes with its own set of rules. 

“Now, as with every place of employment, there are some guidelines that each employee of Abstergo – and its interns such as yourself – must follow.” He explained. “The general rules apply: basic health and safety rules are in effect, no theft or criminal acts on company grounds.”

Louise nodded along. “That seems sensible enough.”

“There is a slight dress code in effect as well. We’re rather lax about it here, and you can wear whatever you like from smart casual to black tie, if that’s what you so desire!” He gestured between the pair, with her more relaxed smart casual in her Mollymauk shirt and boots, to his three-piece suit and  _ very  _ businessman-like appearance. “The main item of clothing that is disallowed is hoodies. There is a zero-tolerance policy in effect for them here, and will lead to the immediate termination of a contract.”

_ A bit extreme, but alright? _ She mused, still nodding along as he continued down the list of rules. Some had already been explained during the tour, and some she anticipated from previous jobs. Eventually, Simon pushed away from the desk, and Louise had to wonder just how long had she been zoned out wondering what her boss had against  _ hoodies _ ? 

“And now if you’d follow me,” he said, rising. “I think they’re ready for us at your desk. IT will be waiting with your login details, and a more permanent security pass than the one I handed to you at the reception.”

* * *

Early January and the project was nearing its end, everyone could tell it was. Louise would soon go off to her new semester at university, think more about what the future had in store. The work she had done over at Abstergo felt worthwhile just as Simon had said it would. However, there is something …  _ different  _ about the work. Like there was a part of the content missing and not being explored.

Something secret that she wasn’t privy to. 

Louise never pried, being on time for each meeting, finishing the work required, but the lingering curiosity to look beyond where Hathaway had told her she would be working grew stronger with each day. 

The conversations stopped dead as she entered any room, and that  _ certainly  _ didn’t help matters. 

But when she thought about it on the tube ride home (and sometimes in a private car that Hathaway called for her, “ _ free of charge of course _ ”) it was dismissed as being a factor of her being temporary. Why  _ would  _ they tell her anything important when she left the company in a few weeks? 

It was different, but unlike London’s general variety, it  _ felt  _ different. Like it was something beyond her, that the research and the translations Louise was working on would make an impact beyond her in the long run. It was far more interesting content - unheard of pieces of literature and sources. 

_ Why weren’t these being shown to the public? Why did Simon want her to keep these within the company? _

A new email arrived in her inbox on early Friday afternoon towards the end of the placement, nothing new; there was always some kind of handover at two when the new shifts arrived. But this one, unlike normal, one wasn’t addressed to her. It also wasn’t completely related to the Norse Mythology aspects of her job, but that was normal too. 

She’d hopped around different projects if they needed a quick second opinion. Louise had quickly gained a reputation as someone with a strong grasp of history, and panache for the languages depicted there. 

Which she  _ didn’t  _ realise until she’d completed the request, and emailed back the confirmation. A sudden gut-punch of an  _ oh shit  _ reaction followed, before excusing herself, locking the desktop, and heading for some air. It  _ was  _ time for lunch after all. 

There was no set lunch hour per say, but rather people wandered to and from the canteen or the nearby fast food shops (those McDonald’s breakfasts were a weakness of Louise’s) when they felt like it. Some ate at the desks if they weren’t based within the scientific labs or the meetings. Others took the food outside into the city - there was a park within a five minute walk of the offices so why not take advantage? 

The canteen was rather quiet today, and Louise didn’t feel like a battle with the winter weather until at  _ least  _ home time, so paid for her meal (fish and chips with a cup of tea, just how quintessentially British) and sat down in one somewhat cozy corner with a copy of  _ King Lear _ . 

A voice calling her name just above a normal speaking volume caught her attention just as Edmund was amidst his soliloquy in the first act. 

“Hey, Louise!” 

Annabelle Barnett, a Graduate student from America who was also undertaking an internship at Abstergo. 

They  _ never  _ even replied to anything other than a cheerful “Morning!” let alone confronting her and initiating a conversation.

“Did you get that email?” 

She thought for a moment, taking a sip. “The one about Project Rainbow?” 

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah; Simon wasn’t in his office and it was urgent so I just finished it up and sent it off. Took about ten minutes or so?” Louise shifted uneased. It did not go unnoticed. “What? The email said it was important-”

“Did you even  _ see  _ who it was addressed to? Who it was from?”

“Addressed to Simon Hathaway, and sent by-” 

“Laetitia England, the Head of Ops at Abstergo. There’s  _ literally  _ nobody else in the company bigger than her, and you basically interfered with some highly sensitive material for their eyes only.”

“ _ Oh shit _ .” she threw the rest of the tea away, despite her mouth feeling absurdly dry. “Okay. What do you suggest I do?”

“Act normal until the end of the day. At least if you run into Simon at some point you can explain to him; he and Laetitia are supposed to be having a meeting here sometime in the next month or so - you can apologise in person if you’ve not been fired since then.”

The  _ if  _ in that sentence wasn’t welcoming. Yes, it was freedom, but in some other way it felt like a brand.  _ If  _ she cleared this up.  _ If  _ Simon took her apology for the mistake she made. 

At best, she’d just lost the last weeks or so of her placement, and a chance at a job after graduation. At worst? A lawsuit that would ensure she’d never see the light of day again. 

She didn’t open  _ King Lear  _ again, instead sipping the tea long after it went cold. Around half an hour later she found it in herself to head back to the desk, and at least try to regain normality. If she could pretend she never read the email, then  _ maybe... _

* * *

As she sauntered through  _ centuries  _ of works, original and second-hand research, things began to click into place. Small concepts that Louise had once struggled to piece together and find a logical solution for, and a battle which seemed overwhelmingly one-sided despite no reason to suggest otherwise, or a centuries long conspiracy that had  _ completely  _ escaped the public attention. 

Annabelle had mentioned Project Rainbow in particular, and Louise went searching, totally invested. While not something she thought could ever be achieved realistically, it dived into the practicalities of  _ time travel _ . A Second World War conspiracy with a group -  _ Templars? Weren’t they from the Third Crusade nearly nearly a thousand ago?  _ \- faking the death of Nikola Tesla to help them. And? What was this about a feud with Assassins? What was a Piece of Eden and why did Abstergo want to keep them hidden, for their own uses?

None of this seemed right, and Louise felt more and more uncomfortable with what she discovered. When she looked more at the extracts of Greek texts from the Peloponnesian War that she’d been asked to skim over and provisionally date a fortnight before, and the rather Gilead-like intentions to that poor woman Myrinne, she couldn’t read anymore. 

Five o’clock rolled around, yet the building seemed  _ far  _ emptier than it usually had at that time. If anything, people would stay far  _ later  _ than make for an early exit. The clouds had gathered since the rather breezy afternoon, and there was a weather warning for both thunder and snow. Two of her favourite weathers. Not that they would be enjoyed with this choking realisation upon her.

She wrapped up warm, secured her bag and began making her way downstairs. She popped by Annabelle’s office on the floor below to say goodbye, but it was completely empty. In fact, Annabelle’s desk didn’t appear to have been used at all. 

Major alarm bells that had been raining since she’d been interrupted during lunch were now full-blown air raid sirens as she descended from the silvery cloaks of hell back to the real world. 

But there was one final obstacle, seen through the clear sides of the elevator: there were two men, taller and far stronger than her, waiting at the main atrium when she arrived. One was clearly listening to instructions through an earpiece; the other was instead keeping a close eye on the room as a whole. When his eyes laid upon Louise departing the elevator, they sprung to life. 

The two sentinels standing guard, one ushered forward by the other, met the woman halfway through the atrium beneath the hanging replica of Da Vinci’s Flying Machine they had been working on (it didn’t fly, but it was gorgeous to look at every time you entered or exited the building).

Now it felt like someone was laughing at her; so close to freedom, as the concept had been so close to success. 

The pair were far taller than her, a downside of Louise being a measly five-foot-three, and both towered over her when the trio met. Neither of the men smiled, and there was  _ something  _ about them that made the atmosphere change. A choked throat, she stood straighter though she barely made an intimidating figure. 

She ripped the earbuds from her ears and waited for what they had to say. It was inevitable: 

“I need you to come with us.” 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abstergo isn't necessarily a company with the cleanest representation, but Louise learns just how _dirty_ their reach has become.

The droning whirs of the lift felt _eternal_. As they turned her back into the labyrinth of corridors and pristine confusion, Louise had removed her headphones and they were now in a pile somewhere in the bottom of her coat pocket. One hand remained within, restless fingers threaded between the plastics and knots. 

Whirring and mechanics took the place of background music that typically filled the ambience of the elevator; the only thing normal about this situation was the lack of conversation between the trio. Louise opened her mouth as the doors opened to ask what was going on, but was instead silenced by a _look_ from the burlier of the two security guards. Louise could almost imagine the guy playing rugby or even a black belt in some martial art. 

Her hand instead lay clasped around one another, thumb and forefinger fiddling with a loose thread of her shirtsleeve. Every being was screaming at her at how _wrong_ this all was.

The doors opened, the only sound from anywhere on the floor, and Louise wanted nothing better than to listen to those deeper parts of her that was screaming that _that was wrong._

Any thought to dig her heels in was swiftly revoked as a possibility. Pauses were met with a nudge of gruff, sharp frustration. Walking was the only way this was getting resolved with dignity, and the woman was subsequently frogmarched down to Simon Hathaway’s office. 

The upper research divisions on this floor, normally bustling with phone calls and meetings at all hours to cater for Abstergo’s international reach, were gutted. Everyone unnecessary for this, whatever it turned out to be- was now free and at home. They were safe. Ignorant of the man upstairs and the secrets within the very walls. 

Outside, the sun was gone. The warm and inviting colours that had enthralled her to the bookshelf and historical artefacts on her first day was instead replaced by a cold demeanour. Shadows were elongated and enforced with this level of worldly darkness as if Louise had descended downwards as opposed to rising. 

They flickered over Simon’s face as he sat behind the desk. Soft turns in his face were replaced with sharp angles, elongated and while passive. 

It was only when the room lights were blazing strong, rather than illuminated by emergency signs or stand-by from the monitors that stated outwards in blank judgement.

Louise walked forward into the room, radiating with false confidence as if it was a normal day with a normal catch-up meeting between the pair. 

“Hi, Simon!” she greeted, smiling. “I see your meeting finished early.”

He raised a wry brow. 

“I had it postponed,” the professor dismissed. “For something far more pressing and interesting has arisen this evening that I must resolve, with my undivided attention.”

Louise winced. “This is about the email, isn’t it? In my defence, I figured I’d quickly finish it and save you a job.”

“And with impeccable speed, might I praise you for that?” Simon paused. “Did you tell anyone about it? Either within the business or elsewhere?”

“Until now, no?” Louise frowned, confused as to what he was implying. “ I was more terrified of _anyone_ being told and voiding the NDA.”

Simon finally moved his gaze from her to the men standing guard. With one hand wave, they relaxed, hands moving from _something_ hidden from view, but was clearly meant for the last case scenario. 

“Did you find those papers remarkable? Eye-opening?” the Professor, still seated, leaned forward and began to rest his chin upon his templed fingers. “Project Rainbow is one of our more recent projects, in the grand scheme of things, although it predates the Animus tests by several decades.”

“You’re really saying that time travel is a viable option?” she said, disbelieving everything about the whole scenario. And she had seen the official papers from Nikola Tesla. “I thought that any sci-fi novel and film would have just told you just how bullshit the idea is.”

“Oh, but perhaps _not?_ We have hundreds of people working on it, ever since the mere concept of time travel, under its myriad of names, was first thought of in ancient mythologies. Such as those that I asked you to look into from time to time? 

You see, your academic tutor is one of us, not that she is aware of it at present. Did you really think that email just appeared in your inbox by _chance_? We're a world-famous organisation. Job opportunities aren't just _given_ away.”

That was intriguing, in a way that horrified with the sheer number of possibilities. Silenced, Louise watched on; Professor Simon Hathaway, as _clearly_ this familiarity was now irrelevant, twirling the sword-shaped letter opener between his fingers. Practised, the technique familiar to him; it was almost as if he was _bored_ by his own explanation. 

Offhandedly, wondered if she would get the opportunity to just stab him with it and shut him up. 

She swallowed and tried to speak through a rather dry throat. 

“And Annabelle? What was her part in all of this? Another one of your many possibilities?”

“A mole. I asked her to make it appear as if you had violated the Non-Disclosure, and were subsequently in _serious_ trouble. All in order to gauge your reaction, of course. A test.” 

“I mean, I _am_ in serious trouble,” she replied deadpan. 

“That remains to be seen. I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a minor adjustment or two. But you must have questions. _Please_ , sit. And I’ll gladly answer anything you can think of.”

She crossed her arms. “I’d rather stand.”

The force on her shoulders took away the option from her, and she remained where they wished her to be: in the chair. 

“I see such _potential_ in you, as Allison did when she put out the call,” Simon twisted the envelope sword between two fingers. “With the correct _training,_ you could make a mark upon the world. Save it as you so desperately wish to. 

But there’s the fact which nobody remembers: our bloodlines are not our own. They are the sum of the memories and the _lifetimes_ of mistakes made by our ancestors who did not know better than a child. We are able to learn from these mistakes, improve our lives and subsequently learn how to improve the wider world.”

Louise did not feel that what Simon was selling to her was right. That beneath its fool’s gold exterior was rotting excuses and a descent downward underneath. 

“All of us in this room have undergone the tests and emerged enlightened. Some, like myself, learned from the mistakes of our own blood. Others, like Mister Berg standing behind you, learned from the mistakes of those far weaker and not so blessed with our opportunities.”

“Control happens as one will not see it, before its too late: Slowly, and then all at once.” 

“Well, that _is_ proven to be the most effective way of doing it.” 

She lifted her head to stare at him for the first time since Simon had begun his monologue. “... how many people know about this? In the company?” 

“All of the heads of our departments. Remember Alan Rikkin’s murder just over three years ago? He was one of our most esteemed and accomplished members. And his daughter Sophia is doing a more than splendid job filling in the vacancy.

But, there are opportunities for anyone to find their future in the company, the historical research and gaming technologies are but a small part of the picture. And, there are far more opportunities than that, if one wishes for their future to show other skills.”

He finally rose from the chair. Lifted by his burden, Simon moved to the woman under his complete and utter mercy. 

“Will you join us?” 

She focused on the outstretched hand. The leather glove covering it, and the lack of humanity that small piece of fabric - distancing himself regardless of how much he wanted to display that unity. She thought back to the past few weeks; how often _had_ Simon really given her praise? Moving her on over giving her the recognition she deserved? 

And then she realised, it wasn’t really that much of an option. He phrased it as a question, but a leading one; he expected her to take the offer with nothing questioned. She would be trained as his successor, and he would make her great.

But if this was greatness and the price of it, Louise did not want anything to do with it. 

“You drive an impossible offer to refuse, Simon,” she said. “But, for the sake of being a decent fucking human being, I’m going to say no.”

It was undoubtedly not the answer he was looking for. Clicking his tongue, he ushered the other two forward. “A shame, but you are young. Inexperienced. A small taste of what we can offer and you will be crawling back to our technologies and the projects associated with them.”

Louise was weaker than all three, but she was likely more agile. If she _could_ duck under their arms, push past the rugby player and down the hall, she knew where the fire exit was and the staircase outside back to the London streets. Five minutes and she could be on the tube and heading home. 

At least, that was the _plan_. 

She hadn’t even so much as flicked her eyes away from his face before the doors were locked, and the third anonymous man who has been gradually moving towards the chair, preparing his next moves with an object concealed within his coat. 

A pause. His eyes moved from her to further into the room. The guards at the door moved at his nod. Louise, restrained, felt the grapple tighten, this anonymous shadowed figure, also made the mistake of placing one anchored hand too close, and she took the opportunity afforded to her. 

Sinking her teeth into his closest hand, she ignored the torrent of swearing in a language she couldn’t understand, and the pain in her jaw the action caused, she sank her teeth in until he bled. 

The second, much taller and ruthless-looking guard, reached into the coat, and retrieved what Louise had only managed brief glimpses of: a surgical needle, filled with a sedative. 

Fighting again, no amount of energy brought her any closer to removing herself from the chair. When the needle itself arrived into view, the adrenaline _really_ kicked in. She might give into panic, but she would not submit to people like _them_.

There had to be one tactic she had yet to try which would work. 

A stamping sound? That wasn’t normal - _Wait._

_Louise suddenly realised they had not restrained her legs._

Blatantly ignoring that abhorrent worst-case scenario, she went for what she was taught in those few self-defence classes during Fresher’s Week. 

One swift kick _should_ \- 

_Aha_!

The needle dipped, before the swearing died out, the hatred and disdain amplified and he doubled his efforts.

“ _But_ -” she gasped like a grounded fish. Louise shook her head to try and stay awake - in reality, it only made the blurry vision far worse. “-the wrong dose.”

“Would kill you?” Simon finished for her. “We know your basic measurements, we don’t need to guess what the optimal dose would be for you. We _know_.”

Her legs were giving way. No longer able to handle her bodyweight upon them, she sank down to her haunches, leaning somewhat forward, but still restrained. Soon, her head was too heavy to raise on its own. That didn’t stop her attempt to glare. 

Simon stood _finally_ and prowled over. He crouched, taking her head in his hands, shushing as she tried to throw him off. Her feeble reach up to his arm made no difference to the outcome, as she blinked furiously desperate to keep this small piece of control. 

“That is our power, Louise: we _know_.”

But there was one thing he _didn’t_ know, and that was what Louise would do next. 

Restraints gone from her arms and shoulders, with strength waning, they had left one vital mistake within her reach; Hathaway still held onto the letter opener. 

Falling upon the older man’s suited shoulder, Louise sagged; in this brief moment, all of his training had proven for nought, as she found her hand upon the blade. 

Ripping it from the grasp and jerking backwards and securely as she could, the letter opener was directed towards his face. Simon shot backwards, hand flying to cover his right cheek and eye, blood dripping between the fingers. 

Satisfied with the damage, Louise allowed the exhaustion to take a complete hold to the sound of shouts from multiple angles. 

Slowly, then all at once, the lights went out. 

* * *

She came to consciousness in the weirdest looking chair; halfway between a recliner and a table, it was extremely uncomfortable, nothing like the similarly designed chairs you would expect at the dentist. No cushioning upon its metallic surfaces, and without a pillow, just some small rest to keep her head from lolling to the sides too much. Yet the strangest part about the chair was that it wasn’t cold at all. 

Just how long had she been lying there? 

Her head ached, as an understatement. Anaesthesia was never entertaining when she’d gone for operations, but at least she wasn’t going to throw up (one benefit of an empty stomach). 

Her right arm was strapped to the chair. The classic medical restraints she’d seen plenty of times on Police Interceptors or 24 Hours in A&E. They were a lot _tighter_ than you’d expect them to be. And there, on the inside of her elbow was a wire. She’d never donated blood (not yet, at least) but she _knew_ this was not the same. The tubing there held mechanics and fibre optics, not blood and plasma. It was tied down, secured and had clearly been positioned with care and practised technique. Evidently, this had been set up multiple times, for multiple readings. 

“For the record,” came the drawl from somewhere. “We can access any piece of data in the world, from any person. We pulled your blood test results from the last time you went to your GP.”

She sighed. “All things considered, Simon, you’re still _not_ the worst manager I’ve ever had. The blood thing is a bit much though. I mean I’ve heard of some weird fetishes in my time, but _oh boy_.”

“It is perfectly normal to experience a small amount of emotional instability during the early experience,” came the ever-familiar vocals. “At least, that is what I’m assuming that is where such an abhorrent thought has stemmed from.” 

What else could she do but groan in frustration? 

“And to think I was going to train you to become my successor.” Simon tutted. “Make you one of _us_.” 

Louise turned towards where the voice was coming from; to her side, Simon Hathaway had lost his demure and charming demeanour. Now, as he sat on one of the chairs he was imposing and cut-throat in the worst way that sent nausea rising, and every instinct told her to _run_. 

Which is a bit of a problem when you’re strapped to a chair.

The patchwork of stitches, freshly calmed by thread glanced across his right cheekbone. Bruising was just beginning to creep in, and Louise took satisfaction in that speaking appeared to cause him discomfort. 

“Such a _waste_ of potential.” 

The friendly, approachable allure of the Professor she first met was all but eliminated now. This scheming, eloquent devious man sitting before her was a new person entirely. But at the same time, exactly who she was expecting, with his distance and observation over direct action unless directly threatened. 

“Bold of you to assume that I had any, to begin with,” she said. 

“I mean,” he clapped his hands together, leaning away for a better look. “You act as if there is something to hide in a world where there is nothing you _can’t_ hide from the right people.”

“How very Orwellian, Big Brother.”

He had the nerve to _chuckle_. “They critique what they do not understand.”

“I’m sure you’ll now recognise the Animus.” he gestured towards the electronics. “It is, after all, what Abstergo and its myriad of divisions are most known for now. Although this stage of company training is not always made public, and neither are the names of those who go through it and don’t always come out the other side.”

Now _that_ was a veiled threat if she’d ever heard one. Simon was clearly not bothering with the facade anymore. It was that more abrupt heel-face turn that made something seem that little bit more _real_ for the student, and that just being held against her will would have something strong repercussions far beyond simply her. 

It was that this made her think of who she asked about one of the more influential figures for her even being in that situation. One with the most selfless of intentions. Surely _she_ would notice a student missing, come the next semester?

“You can’t keep me here,” she tugged on the restraints in another vain attempt to loosen them a bit. They did not budge. “You have a duty of care as my employer, and Allison-”

“ _Oh_ but perhaps not Allison. You see, your academic tutor is now one of us - not that she’s aware of it just yet.”

That stung. Having slander against her was one thing, but Allison - who had been nothing but cordial since they’d met during her first week? Felt like a personal attack, and it shocked her again into silence. 

Nauseous and teary-eyed, she shook her head as if to remove the very memory of those words from her head. “I - I - I don’t believe you.”

“Do you _really_ believe that my email simply appeared out of thin air? We keep an eye on all possible centres for excellent: sporting competitions, government, military, and of _course_ the educational facilities. Oh, the academics - so very underfunded. So _desperate_ to change something. And sometimes, _sometimes_ all they need is a wealthy benefactor who could give them the opportunity to do whatever they wanted. It would shock you just how easily some people sell out their beliefs for power.”

Swallowing hard, all Louise could do was to continue shaking her head. This was not the world she knew. “I still don’t believe this.” 

“All we become clear; we will teach you the _truth_ -”

“Which is sort of what you were supposed to be doing when I took the internship?”

Another tug at her arm. Nothing.

“ _What’s so special about me?!_ ”

Simon crouched beside her, stroking some of the loose hairs behind her ear. He even had the nerve to _grin_. “Nothing at all. That’s the beauty of it.”

Louise thought she _would_ actually throw up at that.

“You wonder what these tests are, what their _purpose_ is in all of this. The answer is simple: to make you one of us, Louise. You fight and reject our thinking, so we must _force_ you to think like us. A last resort, in any case.”

“Illegal experimentation,” she realised. “So what are you thinking? Psychological? Physical? Genetic?”

“The latter. Although, it's nothing that I’m sure you’ll find written down. At least, past rumour and hidden amongst the Dark Web.” 

“Wikileaks?”

“Hmph. Who do you think _controls_ leaks of that magnitude?”

“Julian Assange?”

“And who did you think was behind him?”

There was no reply to that. Louise busied herself with trying to free an arm from its bindings. No such movement. It would work, eventually.

“We normally limit the training programme to males only given some … _mishaps_ in an earlier test run. However, there is some _fight_ in you that we believe would make you a perfect fit.

“But with eight years of experience with this project, I believe Abstergo will have no objections to a wider pool of candidates. Especially one with _your_ particular skill set.”

“What? How is my knowledge of fantasy fiction useful here?”

He hummed. “Not quite that specific. Although, the historical knowledge you have since refined might prove significant. Remember how I said we know everything about you? That also includes _your_ DNA, and we use it to find the lives of your ancestors.”

“I’ve done that; Ancestry and hundreds of data records,” she rolled her eyes. “Didn’t really get too far down the tree.”

“Well, I doubt Ancestry will allow you to physically step into the shoes of your ancestors, to _see_ their mistakes as if watching a film or television show. You told me when we first met how you disliked _Pirates of Nightmares_ , but that is the memories of someone who kindly donated their time to the Animus project. And now, we are ever so thankful for your donation.” 

Hathaway grew colder in his further response. “Your blood is not your own, and _we_ , Abstergo can learn from the past, cementing the route humanity can take forward. How we can be _better_.”

“I don’t know if you’re asking me to say ‘yes’, but I’m still going to fucking say _no_.” 

“Then we’ll just have to change your mind. Everyone comes around eventually.”

There was a call from the computers elsewhere in the room. “Sir?”

“Status check.”

“Subject Nineteen’s vital signs look normalised. Shall we proceed with Phase One?”

Simon paused. He turned back around and looked closely at Louise. “What do you think? Do you want this deeper look into history that you so desperately wished for?”

“I think you can get _fucked_.”

“Hmmm. Bold last words for someone trapped with no escape.” Simon turned away, perhaps disgusted. “Do you see what I meant about that _spark_ , Daniel?”

“Yes, sir.”

He finally rose; standing above her, the height difference towering above where she still reclined. For the first time since they’d met, Louise felt _afraid_ of him. Earlier unease about what he could possibly do was now giving way to what real threat he _was capable of_. 

Simon Hathaway would cause her harm, if it came to that. And, as the situation has dictated, it _had_ come to that in his eyes. 

There was a numbing sensation drawing itself through the wires, followed by a piercing ache at the base of her neck and her spinal cord that took her sight at its sudden instigation. It burned so intently yet the queerest sensation alleviated the discomfort. Not bliss, that ecstasy of relief after an adrenaline rush, but more akin to a call to rest. Not how one might with any chemical help, instead, how you feel when becoming entirely enraptured- with a daydream.

* * *

Some of the simulations were painless, felt as if she was back in her flat and dreaming while half-asleep. Like a movie in the background while studying, or some strange lucid dream. 

The pain certainly felt real, when it came to cuts from a sword, bullets or trying to cut out their _tongue_. 

“There are _hundreds_ of these in our Roman offices,” he cooed one evening after a particularly rough simulation that left her in enough pain to require being sedated. Her jaw, the phantom burns and sheer brutality of the incident remained long after she was disconnected. The ache was there for _days_ and was unlikely to go away completely. “The halls that are _full_ of people undergoing the same training you are. They _queue_ to be allowed to take the test - you should be _grateful_ for this opportunity.”

Louise recalled shouting something that _sounded_ like a swear in rather fluent Italian before being pulled back under the allure of the sedative. 

And, was it just her brain taking on the Tetris Effect, or was she actually picking stuff up from the historical simulations she was being shown? Louise found herself more focused at times, a strong guttural feeling leading her to find solutions, passcodes, allies and foes. A _lot_ of foes. Like those classified files mistakenly read and landed herself in this mess, the revelations filled in the gaps that even the deepest public research had yet to even consider decoding.

More than once, she found herself rubbing her eyes, convinced she was seeing things. Concentrating hard on the silences, or just to the steps beyond the door, the world almost changed entirely. Her being seemingly lurched with a sixth sense, telling her whether the person arriving was friend or foe (there was a _lot_ of that latter category), but here all it did was confirm who the real enemy was. 

(And unlike what Abstergo wanted her to think, it was not her.)

“We’ll explain it later,” they always promised. “Once you’ve refined how to use it.”

They never explained. Hathaway never did explain about biological experiments - what had they done to her eyes. 

More lies, more promises. Time passed, and time _passed_. And with each moment, consciously hers or otherwise, she realised just how many they had been feeding in their gluttony. 

Time was relative here. There were no days, just tests. One time a test would start in the middle of the night, or even during midday naps, food was given whenever they felt her stomach could handle it; they had _all_ learned that lesson the hard way. Louise had also been forced to concede; the fight against simulations was agony, and left more damage on both sides of the equation. A quieter day, a trip into the sunlight and a tour to ‘meet’ Hypatia had followed … only for the next day to begin the technological tango all over again. 

Simon was there occasionally; at times he was beside her, a deep interest in the statistics and data, at times hiding back behind a protective screen with the technicians. Yet sometimes he wasn’t there at all, leaving her to the distanced, ambivalent feelings that scientists were more known for. 

One morning (was it morning?) there was nobody there when she woke up. The lights were on as always, the dull hum acting as white noise when sleep was a hidden escape. But not humans bar herself. 

A spare set of clothes was also sitting somewhere on the cabinet - a rarity; Louise only remembered changing into what could only be described as medical scrubs once or twice. A basics shirt and trousers, nothing that could cause harm to her or the others should she lash out. No laces, no ties. 

The shoes were comfortable, she’d give them that. _And_ far quieter than the boots she preferred to wear. Moreover, the attire when placed together made a rather _normal_ outfit, something she might have worn at university. Just, neutral. They could be placed anywhere in the several centuries or so, simply trousers, shirt and coat. 

A blank slate. 

Creaking open the doorway, Louise continued to find a deserted workplace. The constant hubbub was replaced with the smell of food wafting down the corridor, and the sereneness of the situation, so different from normal, unsettled her stomach. It would give her the opportunity to try and _leave_. 

There was something echoing from the radio several doors to her right: a recent release given the DJ’s praise of how well it rose in the charts that week, but it’s nostalgic, catchy, and timeless despite the retro elements. And whoever was listening clearly agreed with them, humming the melody long after they had moved on.

But that left the escape attempt. Right was no longer an option; so when things don’t go right, _go left_. 

Halfway down the pristine walkways came the _noise_. It was as if someone was whispering directly down her ear, reassurance she so desperately sought after, and sending her forwards. It was sweet, the most pleasant words someone had spoken to her since that email, reassuring in a way that made her want to continue to the end of her curiosity, wherever that was. 

At the very top of the dive downwards, something _stopped_ her. Feet perched upon the edge of something unknown, it was like some sixth sense was holding her back. Refined during training and ensuring she kept alive, this unearthly ability was a language of battle, ever on guard and ever cautious. 

This time, it screamed _Hide!_

There was one small door with no lock on the handle; nobody was inside, and with no time to find somewhere else, the cramped interior would have to do. 

“Anderson! Rickard!”

“Christ, it’s been a while! How’s the research going?” 

“They’re going well, thank you! Recent tests are showing results even Simon couldn’t anticipate!” this employee’s Scottish drawl overpowered the others. “The first two test runs went through last week, and - while our subjects were adequately dispatched without any issues. So we’re hopin’ for the hat trick!”

“I’m feeling a ‘but’ coming along here,” the hanging question was drowned out by a long-suffering sigh. 

“ _Yeah_ . Turns out that we’re finding difficulties that, _how do I put this_ \- means we can’t bring them back. Ye ken?”

“... Which is why _she_ is still being used for the simulations. Now that, hearing reality spoken so harshly, brought the breath from her lungs. She crouched down, one hand against the door to steady herself, and another across her mouth in fear that this time she _would_ throw up.

“Well, they’ll be trying her out in a day or two,” that first, Scottish accent confirmed. “But yeah; if she goes M.I.A then it’s no loss to us.”

“I doubt anyone will be sad to see the back of her. Did you _hear_ what she said to the transfer the other day? _Ghastly_ woman.”

“Oh christ, yeah. Poor Becca was scandalised.” Louise vaguely recalled a woman in their mid-thirties who reacted rather ill to the cascade from the student, her only form of rebellion she had left. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate it. Even in the panic, the blustering response brought a piece of joy and a scoffing laugh through her tension. 

They began walking away. A poor intimidation of what Becca must have been followed, and that also brought about laughter. 

“D’you know where you’re sending _that one_ , then?”

“Oh aye! We were intending to be lenient this time around - make it a short jump backwards. But then she did _that_. 

The trio finally moved too far for her to hear what they were saying to reach. The woman (fugitive?) exhaled, shoulders sagging and head resting against the wooden door in her crouching position. Part of her wanted to cry through the sheer wave of relief, but another realised that at any point she could be caught, left to their mercy and needed to move. 

“ _Che cazzo_.” she spat aghast after them, rising and creaking over the door. With the coast clear, she had to continue. 

Further along, one door was ajar _again_ \- they really need to sort this out and have a serious discussion about their internal security, but if video games taught her anything about the way this particular doorway and the makeup, there was something important waiting inside. 

Or a boss battle. But at this point, a fight would be welcomed far more than yet another set of trials with nobody to hear those complaints.

A pause to wait at the corner intersection, ensure the coast was clear, then dipped across the pathway and inside without an issue.

If you’d passed by the room itself, you would not have given it a second thought. It would, at first glance, appear a normal office with cubicles and filing cabinets, computer monitors and photographs and humanising trinkets littering spare surfaces. Photos of their children or spouses, pets; all Louise had now was the necklace around her neck. They had taken everything else.

Pages of notes and documentation littered surfaces, files thick and thin, all detailing their trials and tribulations at the hands of Abstergo’s bloody fingers. She reached over to the desk standing alone - clearly their supervisor’s - and picked up some of the files. Most related to Project Rainbow and everything she’d known before, just declassified. This was their working material, all names and information available for all eyes to see.

A man from America who was picked up around eight years ago, a woman in Australia, twins from somewhere Slavic (the pages couldn’t tell themselves). People from across the world, taken and recorded before they were experimented upon. Just like her. 

For those that were no longer living, or at the very least, unreachable, their pages were marked with a large red strikethrough line. It invoked imagery she’d seen once before. 

On the cabinet drawers were different names. Of projects, historical figures, and then several labelled with “Subjects”. The one that pulled her from the door was the one labelled with _Subject Nineteen_. Wasn’t that what Simon and the technician had called her before? 

She pulled it out, just enough to pop the lid and reach inside. 

From there, came fewer papers in each folder than those upon the table, but still a significant proportion of those with notes and handwritten additions. There was her CV from before everything, the photo they took for her security pass, beneath it an overview of her medical records. And then came the stuff she never knew: the simulations, genealogy, she could have spent a year and a day just sitting there taking it all in. Decades of her family history, lost through violent European wars and persecution _there_ , stretching back to the Renaissance.

What struck her most, was the papers and _her photograph_ already marked with that damning red line. 

There was another door at the end of the room; closed, she couldn’t see what was within, but from the warning signs she could understand it was perhaps a little dangerous. From the sheer amount plastered across the walls beside it and the walkway, perhaps a nuclear reactor would have been appropriate to see, but that’s not what was visible from the small window. 

The object was the source of that obscure voice. Technological in design, it was all sharp edges; wires were littered here and there, most likely from the technicians attempting to understand the intricacies and hidden secrets. 

Louise snorted at the thought. It seemed to be a pattern, to hold something beautiful and powerful where only _they few_ could access it, and study it and maintain its cage. Like hers. 

No wonder it called out for someone just as lost. The design was alluring, and she could’ve stared all day if giving the option to. 

Pounding feet, panicked shouts and all hell was breaking loose outside. Voices overlapped, but oddly no alert was triggered beyond their little world on this false fastidious fantasy.

The door locked behind her, cutting off the only physical way out. She spun around as it clicked shut, scrambling to find a door handle but coming up empty. No hinges to pry either. 

There was only one option for it. 

If the articles were correct, and Louise suspended belief for just a moment, perhaps this would lead to somewhere ages hence. 

There was no time for its ethics to be debated, it was go ahead or surrender. Not a decision that even needed to be debated. 

That feeling of unease was back, moving forward to a trip unknown. Whatever awaited her, wherever and _whenever_ it was, it would be a path few had taken. The road less travelled by. The stuff she could learn, even if it meant surviving a day longer than she would in Abstergo, is what drove her hand forward to clutched onto the object. 

_Down the rabbit hole we go, I guess_. 

At least this time it was on her own terms. 

* * *

What Simon Hathaway and Abstergo put her through was _not_ time travel, not really. She, her consciousness visited the Renaissance and World War Two among other periods; her body never left the discomfort of the chair, although it felt real enough at times that Louise really _was_ looking at Cesare Borgia’s final fall. 

There was no hum from the lightbulbs. No monotonous rhythm from the heart monitors nor the clacking of plastic computer keys. No pristine walls and no _bed_. 

It felt as if she had been punched _multiple_ times. The nausea was back, aching in the limbs and gnawing sting near where she assumed the solar plexus, with surely bruising to follow. In _Outlander_ , Claire her fall was described similar to a car crash, tumbling out of control off the side of a bridge. 

But that was natural. This, with its mechanics and constant experimenting, was far from it. 

The guttural feeling that there was something wrong was almost a comfort now. At least she could count on one thing. Coming back to her senses, Louise moved from her back into a curled position upon her side, groaning. 

At first, she thought she might have fainted. That the breeze surrounding her was the air conditioning back wherever she was being held this time. But that _squeaking_ sounded less like a rotor and more like-

She opened her eyes; curled up on the floor left temple upon the bare uncomfortable flooring beneath, she stared and came face to face with a _rat_. Both darted away at the same instant, equally afraid of the other. 

As it squeaked away, the woman scrambled backwards; upon hitting the wall, a dull _thud_ of bone contacting wood, she fought down the surprised shriek that would have happened if she had been in a more comfortable location.

Louise reached for the handle and pulled. Nothing. She pushed. _Still_ nothing. 

_Locked in, again_ . She mused. Trying again gave no new results, and she couldn’t help the outburst that led her to slam her palm against the wood and metal. Besides the initial discomfort (and the hushed swears), nothing moved or gave way; but the noise _echoed_ , and drew footsteps from somewhere down the hall. 

Friendly or unfriendly, she couldn’t tell anymore - the levels of what she once trusted had been drawn over. Or judging by the squalid conditions in the room, had _yet_ to be drawn among the battlelines. 

Yet, in this room, she was alone. But someone _was_ coming this way. There was some deep movement elsewhere in the building, it felt like some kind of machinery, but what was more concerning was the person rising up the stairs. 

They echoed as they drew nearer, and the adrenaline kicked in. Louise knew she’d only have one chance for a big break before they grew aware of it; hands shaking, and stepping back from the door, she ignored the squeaking mice, the grinding in the background, to solely focus on the steps. It was like the world grew muted again, and she was anticipating just to find rats and more rats - perhaps a key hidden somewhere ( _video games, don’t fail me now!_ )

It was just the one person, most likely a man if the silhouette’s height and walking gait was anything to go by. Ambivalent perhaps to what they would encounter? Or were they ready and waiting to turn their nose up towards at shoddy appearances, and those far less fortunate? What of his ethics, and the 'anonymous' contributions and donations to companies among his social circle? Was he one of Abstergo's benefactors? 

Did he pause just after the corner, gesturing? _Shit. There are people there on guard down there_. That was going to be tricky, but if she was quick enough, then maybe she could slip past before anything happened. 

The coat and the tails, she realised with hackles raised, reminded her of Simon. With a queasy but steeled heart, she _knew_ this would ultimately be another test. That she would be reprimanded for failing yet another torture they paced before her. 

That single opportunity to try and rush an escape was closing; if that _was_ Simon they were undoubtedly going to deny her another opportunity to do anything remotely close to escaping ever again. 

Petrified of what would come next, Louise once again wished she still had that _bloody_ letter opener. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months to wait for 6.6K words? I'd say that's worth it right? But we're almost to the fun exciting stuff - how are you enjoying it so far? Please let me know what you think in the comments :D 
> 
> I feel like I went a tad overboard with the introduction of the time travel stuff in this chapter primarily because I have been marathoning Outlander and other period dramas for the last couple of weeks – you bet there’s going to be further mentions and points added in later on.
> 
> That’s also why there was that small piece about the radio: I listened to Dua Lipa’s “Physical” for hours on repeat editing. Plus I think that this small reference also lets you get an idea of what the timescale is here: the single was released at the end of January 2020, so she must have been in simulations with the Animus for around three weeks or more. 
> 
> For those curious about who Louise’s ancestor really is, her name is Alessandra – one of the incoming characters in the Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood of Venice boardgame. According to the material currently presented to us via the game, she is Cristina’s (yes, that Cristina) daughter, and muted in her early teen years when her tongue was cut out (YIKES). The full Wikia article is available to read here: https://assassinscreed.fandom.com/wiki/Alessandra_d%27Avanzago 
> 
> (Che Cazzo = What the F*** , in Italian)
> 
> Thank you to everyone’s who read the chapters so far (and for those who I’ve given sneak peeks of stuff coming in the future)! With July being Camp NaNoWriMo, I’m hoping to have the next chapter finished and published far sooner than this one was – and with Chapter Three finally introducing key players in the 1860s setting, we’re finally edging towards the main storyline!  
> A special thank you goes out to Mya who read through several drafts of this chapter (ilysm); Mya, I dedicate this chapter to you!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She wished for family, the enveloping hugs from her mum and the lazy mornings where music would curl and dance upstairs to wake her. The encompassing weight of the cat who just had to sleep four inches from her face, but would always nuzzle and purr exactly when he was needed._  
>    
> _There would be no way to reach her now._  
>    
> Louise wakes after reaching into the mysterious object in Simon Hathaway's labs at Abstergo, but with it causing more trouble than it's worth, how is she going to find herself coming out this in one piece?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a few elements which could be triggering for some people.
> 
> Warnings for: Blood, character death, and Maxwell Roth. There's also some not-so comfortable stuff implied.

_Okay, okay._

_This was not okay._

Those steps were still coming closer, and Louise had yet to entirely decide on her plan of action. She knew she absolutely _had_ to be the first to act as soon as that door opened, but then what? 

No handholds, nowhere to hide. 

Jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, Louise instead elected to run forwards through the flames. Fighting had worked once, it will have to work again. 

The lock clicked. The door swung open, and someone stepped inside. 

The man who walked in was definitely highbrow. Three-piece tweed suit and cane, he looked as if he had just stumbled in from a fox hunt. In his mid-forties, and greying hair and bushy moustache, a military man with significant training in poise. 

Both found a stalemate, as they sized up one another. Trying to deduce their actions. 

‘Twas a fatal mistake for one. In the time it had taken Louise to simper out from behind her pause, her opponent had measured up the cowering lion with her erratic hair. 

The cane was drawn backwards, and where the decorated pommel met tenured wood, protruded a sword. One inch wide, it was deadly and could very easily remove skin or muscle, or perhaps even life from a person without much of a secondary thought.

At first, positioned towards her collar bone, the now definitely almost certainly dangerous man before her, raised it to caress the underside of her chin and against her throat. And kept lifting it, forcing her to glare at the ceiling.

“Now my dear. How about we try that again.” Not just a businessman but old money. Rich, and clearly Oxbridge educated. “A name, when one is in polite society, would be a suitable place to start.”

Reluctantly, Louise passed over her name. 

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said, exalted. A hand was extended as he crouched, empty (for once) and with no intentions bar the obvious. Louise let him raise her to her feet. 

At the moment both heels grounded, like a snake she struck. Punching as hard and determined she could, praying it would make him stagger and present the opening. 

Which, naturally did not materialise. Factoring in the reach of the cane’s outer casing had not been part of the equation. 

The pommel came as his reaction making contact in response and throwing her away. The suited man had his feathers ruffled, and he took a moment to adjust his suit and brush away the creases. 

“A _southpaw_ ?” he measured her up, rubbing his jaw; it was already going to be red - maybe it would even _bruise_. “Intriguing.”

“Wow, you are _really_ asking for me to punch you again, huh?” 

The bastard had the nerve to _smile_. “Perhaps later; save the exhibitions for all of your prowess for the audiences, if you’ll be so kind.” he leaned to his right and shouted into the corridor. 

Therein followed two men to stand in the doorway, one balding, and one with greying ginger hair. Both looked similar, so at least _slightly_ related. Even their scars were closely linked. 

“Sir?” one looked to Percival for their next command. 

“Pick her up and bring her with us.”

 _Fight. Fight. Fight_. It’s all she thought as they cornered her in, rough grips on shoulders, hair, arms, and ripped her away from the bare floorboards. 

As she kicked, her ankle was retrained, and inevitably, she was forced to her feet and marched away. 

* * *

It was dark outside, the lights inside reflecting upon the glass panes to ensare vision in its grasp. Nothing beyond their stage was available, but something _there, right there_ made her pause, aghast. 

There was a jittering in her hands, up her arms, that hadn’t been there. Sheer and utter _terror_ was overwhelming her. 

Wait. What. _No_. Surely that could be?

There was no way in hell that the person staring back was her. Yet it moved when she did, looked as abhorred as she felt. 

It had been _an age_ since Louise had last seen her reflection. The woman, hollowed out and almost completely replaced that stared back, was not her. It couldn’t be. 

Her green eyes were different; the emotions shown there, yes, were vastly altered from before - depth that she had only seen within far more serious, and more universal, situations than what she was dealing with. 

She was ushered away before she could turn her gaze from this shell of a person reflecting back. But as she was frogmarched down the corridor, all she could do was exhale a long wounded whine. 

* * *

It appeared they were intruding on a party, or business meeting of some kind. Formal mixed with informalities. Here and there stood individuals in small groups discussing animatedly, but glancing around with trained poise. 

Her dusty checkered shirt, jeans and trainers alien in such circumstances, were even far removed from the three-piece suits, dresses and bustles. The room before her was equally as bare, but this instead held many chairs, boxes and glasses upon them. 

One decorative piece kept coming into view; that gleaming red cross that littered chains, embroidery, armbands. The last in particular sent her reeling and once again fighting to break free. This is _not_ what she wanted. This is _not_ who she wanted to know. 

The bloke to her left was clearly irritated with her incessant movement and tightened his grip. His free arm also moved to restrain her forearm with the same intensity. Pain exploded from the sheer pressure he placed there, and there was a thought that he might be trying to break her arm beneath his fingers. 

The squeak she couldn’t hold in brought eyes from across the room to their entrance, and more than one fellow cheered or praised their, or rather, this suited man’s, arrival. 

“Ah, there he is!” 

“ _Dear_ Percival,” a woman in layers of purple chiffon greeted. They seemed to be close, intimate friends, with how his stony exterior melted in her presence. 

One near the back frowned. “What is that on her arm?” 

Tutting, they inspected her right arm, rolling up the sleeve to inspect the subsequent damage. “A shame. I thought we would acquire a prettier one this time.”

Burning that she’d been feeling on and off since waking and previously attuned to pins and needles, was now revealed to be something far more permanent. What could have been dismissed as lines of fabric pressed into the skin by her bodyweight, look far removed from that. 

The markings laced themselves through veins as they moved upwards; like the red-raw vines they originated at her index finger and its intensity increased as it carved a path across skin. Each was raised, branches patterned like winter frost on windows but burned as lava upon the slightest touch; extending her fingers proved just as uncomfortable, likely exacerbated by her fall.

Coming to a stop near her elbow, the figures wrapped around to the outside bone of her arm, arcing to the bone at her elbow. 

It was poked and she hissed. They poked it harder and Louise tried to break free of the iron grip upon her upper arms. Nothing happened, and all that effort resulted in stepping backwards three inches. 

There was something unsettling about the whole charade. Not once had anyone spoken to her, but merely about her. No formal introductions, no hands shaken. Merely being appraised and discussed in terms of future usefulness. 

Less of a business meeting and more of a slave market. 

“If we could get back to the matter at hand, please?” Percival clapped, cutting through the hubbub. “I’m sure we would all prefer to be somewhere warm and comfortable, and not, _well_ -” 

A round of chuckles from the assorted made Louise’s temper flare. 

“So,” he licked the pen nib and began to scribe. “Female. Approximately twenty years of age. Five-foot... _two_ , possibly three inches tall. 

Pushing rounded spectacles up his nose, he listed through several questions for which answers would be sprawled across the page and opinion taken from the assorted company.

“Not as slender as I would have hoped for,” inspected one. “But there is clear evidence of muscle definition in the shoulders that can be worked upon later.”

The guard from the end of that initial corridor scoffed; at drawing the attention of the entire room, and a glare from Louise, he gestured towards Percival’s bruised cheek. 

“Strength is not her asset, although her willpower is assured. _Agility_ and her dexterity are what will confirm success rather.”

“As long as she is confirmed to be healthy and still alive, we can work with that.” 

A melody of agreement littered the crowd, and none opposed. 

“What’s next?”

Two pages flicked back, and with another push of the glasses consulted the protocol labelled there. “Stage One of the physiatric assessments and then whatever you wish to test first.”

“Right. Clean her up, and we’ll get started.”

* * *

The two unnamed red-coated guards dragged her from the gathering, and she was _not_ making it easy for them. While she did not sink to the floor in a tantrum, Louise instead pulled and refused as much as possible. Hissing and spitting like a feral cat at times. It irritated them, and every time they told her to stop struggling, it only made her fight even more. 

A heavy blow, that exhibited a dull _thump_ audible across the room, left her wheezing. The breaths crackled and she doubled over as best as she could in their grasp. 

“ _Keep still_ ,” he said. “If yer know what’s good fer ya, you’ll stay down.”

“ _Fuck you._ ”

Another punch. This one instead to her jaw. Bruising split, her left cheekbone now bleeding onto the floor. The pain caused her eyes to water, welling before cascading down her face.

A round of laughter and applause, as the onslaught was clearly some sought after entertainment for them. The ‘hero’ of the hour was goading. One cooed in her direction, as one would to a child mid-tantrum. 

And it had the same quality with this scenario. Namely, aggravating the temper. _Try it again_ , part of her whispered. 

It was soon quieted, as she returned the favour. The head of the man decked in leathers and red jerked backwards, making contact with the wall, before shortly making contact with the bloodied floor beneath them.

She spat the mouthful of blood out, and the laughter ceased. 

Louise did not stop glaring.

Pinned against the chair, all she could do was curse and swear and verbally berate two heavily scarred men as her hair was cut. Matts of unwashed bloody clumps were the first to go, and her hair - the one vanity she allowed herself - and that once flowed down to her lower back, barely now touched her collar. Hacked away, Louise hissed and screamed and made as much of a fuss as she could do.

Lightning couldn’t strike twice, right? 

Apparently _so_ , as once again Louise found the same restraints from the office. The trick of biting until drawing blood was almost the _norm_ for this lot; so used to such dirty fighting that they were simply unfazed by it. 

She stared resolutely at the man behind the barrel of the gun as the revolver clicked and loaded.

Nobody spoke initially, for the glares passed between said all they intended to. The gun remained pointed less than a meter away from her face, and Louise _dared_ him to pull the trigger. 

Then there was tutting; breaking through the stalemate, and all eyes snapped to their leather-wearing superior. 

“I would _recommend_ that the procedure continues as planned.” he commented pointedly, and the gun was gone. Staring into the hate-filled glower of the Doctor who continued to prowl as if she were his wounded prey made Louise almost miss the condescending technicians. A childish plaything for them to torment or throw away when they got bored. 

She had moved beyond where Louise could see her, though if the student strained, she could spy the dainty hat from the corner of her eye. 

“And if it fails?”

“We simply find someone else,” 

“Like the others?”

He chuckled, and it was dripped with blood-red cynicism. “ _Precisely_.”

An offhand remark brought them back to the other scientist in “No loss on our part.” They peered in closely once more, stroking a calculating hand’s knuckles down her face. “However, if we _succeed_ , then we have what we’ve always wanted: the ticket to finally win this dastardly war, once and for all.”

Her demonic grin returned. Lucy Thorne took one measuring survey of the woman in the chair, nodded determinedly, and then turned to her senior. “Very well,” she said. Thorne moved towards the chair and to the woman now theirs. Appraising. Calculating. She stared downwards at her as if she were a blank canvas, or as if Lucy Thorne was already orchestrating the paths before her. Seeing without seeing. 

“When we found those writings about the Cult I did not believe that we could even come _close_ to replicating their methods. I wonder perhaps, will we see a similar result or will the methodology need to be updated in kind?” Thorne’s eyes narrowed as she waxed philosophically to herself. 

Calling another dressed in leathers just like her, thus she made their first mistake: they stood far too close. 

Blindly she kicked upwards, her heel made contact with something, then cue a sickening crunch and a _thump_ upon the floorboards beneath.

Shouts. Pain. The woman raised a brow, eventually impressed. A nod to Percival, satiated. Louise lifted her head to see the duo shaking hands. 

Her heart sank. So much for getting out of this.

“She will do _perfectly_ ,” she praised. “I leave her in your capable hands.”

They stood, and the hands holding Louise in place relaxed. The one who was behind her left, turned. “So how do you want to get started, boss?”

* * *

The ‘initiation’ as they had called it, the baseline to which they would see how far she could be twisted and moulded as they saw fit. Pain was really the name of the game here. Not mechanical, as the Animus had become, but rather physical. (Or in the more colloquial terms, getting the shit kicked out of her.)

If being more akin to books and words didn’t make the fact she did not belong any more obvious, she had never been in a real fight. 

It was a separate room, not unlike the first where she initially awoke in such a divergent world. Threadbare blankets were mindlessly discarded beneath her, little they did for the cold and for comfort. They were fraying, itching as nails and palms rubbed against it, but it was all she was provided with. So she made do. 

There was also a rather curious underlying smell to the room, which in the dark she did not want to investigate. It would be the moulding walls, the damp, and Louise would leave it at that. 

There was dullness there, plastered behind that overwhelming need to let all of her emotions explode and take hold, to seek comfort in the weakest state she had ever found herself in. Sitting almost made her blackout once more, so Louise elected to remain lying; if their words were anything to go by, she would be here for some time to come. She would get to know this room. 

She wished for family, the enveloping hugs from her mum and the lazy mornings where music would curl and dance upstairs to wake her. The encompassing weight of the cat who just _had_ to sleep four inches from her face, but would always nuzzle and purr exactly when he was needed. 

Turning to face the wall three inches from her face and shutting her eyes as tight as they would go, those memories were further away than ever. There were just some things she couldn’t visualise anymore. Her hands felt different as she felt them beneath the covers; they were too scarred, too alien for her now. 

As the first tears fell, she accepted that she would never be able to brush hands through that orange fur again, nor see how her mum’s face would light up when she came home from university early. 

There was no way to reach her, to just phone her and say how much she loved her one final time. Apologise to all of the people she was letting down by doing this. And to say farewell to that innocent version of herself, that naive being whom Louise would never know again. 

Louise silently bid goodbye to them all in turn. Regretting every argument, the chances she never took. The fun she never had. Letting her work get the better of her time now seemed like a _terrible_ plan. 

All in all, it took less than an hour to cover everyone. 

It felt lighter somehow, that her conscience knew that each person who meant so much to her, would be given this finality and closure, even if she was not the person to give it. 

Louise exhaled. A beat. 

Her nose burned. Chin wobbled. 

Then all at once, she let the wave crash over her, and the emotions spewed forth. Sobs wracked her body, and she cried until she passed out from the sheer exhaustion.

A red coat was thrust her way the next morning. It was still warm, and a curious stain upon the breastbone that was seemingly cemented to the textiles. At the first opportunity, the rags were discarded, blamed on an ‘accident’ during training. Percival replaced it with a more neutral worker’s brown without a dispute - merely a raised brow and a closer look at her work at hand. 

* * *

Lucy Thorne dropped in and out, to check on progress. At times, she would be accompanied by the doctor which would notify another round of testing; clipboards, scribbled notes and Louise getting the shit kicked out of her for their amusement.

Another time, she had brought someone else. He had not been there when first forced to endure their company, and the only one who did not have the Templar sigils upon his clothing. Drunk, or even high, he was erratic and temperamental at best. When she refused the killing blow that day, he stepped in, produced a pair of brass knuckles (barbed, dented and heavy duty) and did the job himself. 

With all of the brutality, there are levels best left untouched. A rule, evidently, Maxwell Roth did not care for. He even began _laughing_ as he saw the gore and bitter end of this man strewn across the floor. 

She had to turn away, instead looking towards Percival. Whispering over, she cursed “ _What the fuck_ ?” trying to seek _something_ from this display. 

Behind her, she did not realise that Lucy Thorne had seen this change, nor that Percival had seen _her_. 

Enraged, his hand found its way to her throat, amidst all of the screaming, and it took three people to prise him backwards Shaking, but no longer scared (more enraged than anything), Louise saw the window framing the snarling feral being in which she could act. As much as she despised the man who now lay in pieces, but there was no reason for such treatment. 

Shouting back would do nothing, and she found tension snapping somewhere deep within her. No conscious thought accompanied the action, but the end result was a move so cocky and brash that untouchable Blighter did not expect it.

Swearing and spitting curses, she threw forward and forced all her might behind the blow directed at his face. 

More snarling, then screaming and the spell held across the rest of the room was broken. Louise found herself being thrown over somebody’s shoulder and escorted from the room. She could hear her very existence being challenged and cursed, with the odd death threat in there to boot. 

Roth never visited again, but the next time they met those threats would likely become a real possibility. 

* * *

Early one morning, as the damp and mildew once more coated the inside of the room (that was more of a cell really), it was as if she was the only being in the world awake. The machines were silent, a light reprise to the conveyor of misery. With everyone else seemingly asleep, the orchestra of nature was taking centre stage. 

Snow and frost outside veiled the world beyond, truly encapsulating the feeling of being alone in the world. 

It made all the sense to her, to want to give into her vices: crawl back under those covers, sleep the day away as best as possible, and submit to the fantasy for a while longer. 

But the far walls were growing boring to stare at without a suitable reason, and the bitter chill of the damp (essentially store)room was drawing her from sleep, but not enough to be comfortable burrowing between the blankets. 

As she lay there a while longer, watching dust particles in the beams of light, there was a peculiar noise. A flutter which cut through. It didn’t register at first just what it was, but a moment of simply watching revealed to be a butterfly. Light and fragile, its purple wings broke through the dullness. 

It kept bouncing between the walls, the window and the floor. Panicking. 

_It needs to get out._ Louise thought. If she could just grasp it then she could get up to the window and let it out. Which was something easier said that done; sinking out of bed to the floor, it took small increments of edging forward to stop it from flying away in its distress.

Louise remained crouching, thighs burning with the exertion and lack of respite. Slowly she inched forward, hand extending towards this fragile being. She hoped that her exertion wasn’t making her shake too much for it. The delicate purple being danced a bit longer, diving and then climbing to reach her. And then, just as Louise’s hand was going to dip, it made the final stretch to rest upon her scarred index finger. 

There, it rested for a moment before starting its journey on. Not long enough to ensare.

With its second wind, it soared upwards, arcing towards the heavens, hopping between scars on the floor, the corner, the wall. Anywhere but the crack in the window in which it first entered. Trapped just like she was. 

It just needed a little help to get to where it needed to be. In stone walls, within splintered wood and cracked glass frames, the being of nature kept imprisoned by the creation of man. It couldn’t break through, and it nearly reached her grasp. 

The purple speck dropped into the floor. _Just a little further-_

A foot came into view. Unwavering, it came down upon the purple fragility of the butterfly’s wings, killing it. 

Sitting back on her haunches, the distaste engulfed the glare sent upwards to Percival. 

“You’re a bit of an asshole, you know that right?”

“As you’ve delightfully told me on numerous occasions.” 

Urged forward by the scruff of her collar, Louise scrambled to her feet, tripping as she clambered after the man. The boots they had given her to replace the mass-produced cheap trainers were old and disregarded by their previous owner. 

She dug the heels into the boards, steadfast refusing to go futher. 

The man gazed at her with veiled frustration. The cane was tapped once, _twice_ upon the floor. 

“Hold on. Where are you leading me?” 

Percival barely paused in his stride across the warehouse. “To a way out.”

“No.” She stopped. 

“No?” 

“ _No_ ,” she confirmed. “There’s something you are not telling me. Something big enough and draining your conscience enough to bother me so early in the morning. I’m not leaving until you tell me the truth.”

“If that is what you want,” he concedes, before turning to the furthest wall. There, Percival unlocks the one door that she had never been granted beyond. It was the source of screams, shouts, and all-around calamity. 

Two guards had nicknamed it _“The entrance to hell itself”._

The screams were harrowing and long-lasting even in the silences. 

One door unlocked and then sealed behind them, and then another. She was right about the jail-like appearance. Each segmental door was locked, although breaths, sobs, and cries could be heard throughout. The one or two doors that were opened to see inside, were 

Percival opened the door hatch. Within were ten or so humans of all ages: children hollowed eyes and still quietly sobbing for their parents, an elderly couple embracing with diminishing strength. 

Two others were curled up on the floor, Asleep? Dead?

But all were _filthy_ and dehumanised, and the abrupt contrast to the well-suited businessman nearby made her stagger backwards from the new opening. The smell was eye-watering and Louise really fought the urge to wretch or vomit. 

Every time she thought she found a limit to the horrors humanity could create, here she was being presented with another. 

Percival, at least, gave her a moment to reflect on the news and gather her composure. With no tissue to hand, she wiped the tears and snot on her cuff. 

Breathing in, and then breathing out, Louise lurched forwards and took a moment to herself. Leaning upon her knees and head bowed, she waited for that sea of nausea to pass and would allow her to speak without worry. 

The man beside her, cocked his head to the side, observing her. 

“How did that make you feel?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. The shaking hands made fists, nausea returned and she found not to punch him. 

_Like I want to leave you at their mercy_. “... How come I’m not in there with them?” 

“You fought back.” As if it was the simplest thing in the world. 

“You mean I was the only one who _survived_ fighting back.” 

“This year, perhaps. But there is more than just a single life at stake here. Arguably, it could expand to all reaches of the empire. 

Silence. Percival did not find his voice in a suitable time. It was _irking_. 

“I’m getting fucking tired of men deciding what’s best for me without actually _asking_ what I want,” Louise snapped. 

“Then, pray tell, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing you can give me.” 

“Perhaps home is unreachable for you, but what I _can_ do is allow those people in there to return to theirs,” he said. “I did not show you that today to be cruel, nor to belittle. What I’m showing you is important so clean your face and hurry along. We do not have long.”

Wait - fuck. Had she been crying? Louise wiped her cheeks upon the cuff as Percival moved on. 

“How long?” she asked. “You said we don’t have long, so how _long_ exactly?”

“With a rough estimate? Perhaps a two-month window before we _must_ act, or Miss Thorne decides to take a closer perspective at our endeavours.”

He gestures to the crates in the corner. They’re stacked as one might anticipate in a warehouse, yet their contents were somewhat less common for the public eye. _Weapons_. Guns, knives, even several - like a rapier that appeared to be antiques. 

She nodded over to the weapons. “You do realise I want that sword now?”

“If you prove yourself amenable, then perhaps it will be your reward at your graduation.” 

A beat, as she calculated and then realisation dawned. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” she whined. “These bastards are bloody _inescapable_.”

“Unfortunately so,” he agreed. “There are numerous locations like this across the city that deal with Templar affiliated goods and services. Many are by the Thames itself, but offices, transport hubs, and even brothels are found elsewhere. All are integrated and official in the eyes of the government. The crown knows they are a business venture, just not what kind.” 

Something from those stuffy, droning early morning lectures to the front of her mind. “But isn’t extradition to Australia illegal? 

“Do you believe that would stop someone with no morals?”

There was no arguing against that.

“Theft, black market goods and human trafficking. _Right_.” she felt queasy. “How has nobody figured this out and stopped it already?”

Bribes and death, death and bribes. She was becoming far more acquainted with the seedy underbelly than she liked. Her blind jump was drawing a rapidly growing discomfort with where she landed. _None_ of this was what she wanted, nor was it what she wanted out of her career. Doing good and being remembered were now two contrasting things. 

Would you really want your name attached after being marched down such a shadowy path? 

That’s what _we_ are here to do.” 

_That_ was surprising. “We?” 

He hummed, before checking each of the exits. No footprints beyond the sound of their own.

“Listen closely, as this will only be explained to you once. The real purpose of today’s adventure was this: I have just shown you the route that leads to the main gates of the complex, and the way out into the city. On a Thursday evening in two months time, Miss Thorne and several other high-ranking Templars are going to be here for a quarterly meeting. They will also be here to see you graduate and send you elsewhere in their web of operations.

“Our job is to train you sufficiently before then, in order to facilitate your escape.”

There was nothing about his demeanour to say that he was lying. _Especially_ after what he had just shown her. 

“And them?” she asked. “I’m assuming their ending isn’t going to be so neat and tidy.”

He sighed. A cloud of vapour accompanied his speech. “It looks that way. Most will be worked to death, some just thrown into the workhouse or the asylums if there is no discernible use. 

“What a _delightful_ term to use about your fellow human beings.”

“You do realise that this training will not be easy?” He said, drawing the blade once more. “That it was _designed_ to break you in multiple ways and repair back together again stronger. Harsher.”

“And they’ve not been doing that already?”

“Phase _One_. If this is but the start, then what do you think will come later?” he asked. “And how do you think you’ll deal with any of it?”

* * *

As time went on, and late January turned to a wet and dismal February, this empty facade became more and more difficult to maintain. Every pained scream from the hells below ground, the electric surges and pleads of the innocent were bringing to mind horror movies. And even then the more abhorrent relations were yet to come. 

If this was a morality test then it wasn’t one she wanted to be part of. 

Yet sometimes in the evening she would just sit there, totally overwhelmed by the subtle changes. There have been noticeable changes too; the sudden lack of takeaways and sugary foods and whatever else meant she’d lost quite a bit of that unnecessary poundage. In its place formed muscle, the strength in her shoulders from years of archery competitions melded with this onslaught into a physique less attuned to her old life. 

Such a slog was exhausting, and for sixteen hours spent being physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing; the concept was to wear her down, create a shell they could torment, and gradually quiet into doing what they wished. 

Bones were roaring at her some days. Particularly upon the coldest mornings. It was as if her injured arm was encased in ice, or at the very least in the grip of Jack Frost. Shrugging into the jacket was taxing, and Louise found herself digging nails into her palm at intervals to ensure that there was still _some_ sensation. 

Which, unfortunately, played its hand against her the morning where Percival decided that combat was the name of the lesson that day. And as a treat, he himself would be her teacher. 

As talents increased, and praise was to be expected, challenges, as well as the stakes, were being raised with them.

He had kept his promise about the rapier, and within days of their hatching plan, he would swindle the weapon away from them for her to train with during the evenings. 

Which is where the duo was found one afternoon. 

Percival was _speedy_ , a classically trained swordsman. She could not compete. Each time she found herself gaining the upper hand, he would retort by sweeping her legs out from beneath her. 

“ _Jesus_ , give me a fucking break.”

The flat of the blade made contact with her crown and sent her sprawling across the floor. “Do you think _they_ are being given a _‘fucking break_ ’? Those children in there about to be sold into indenture or worse? If it were anyone else commanding you, _this_ would be your break.”

Sufficiently chastised, Louise lowered her eyes and pulled herself from the floor. A muttered apology, and the dance began again. There was no break, that much was true. 

Within the span of sixty seconds, she had remade contact with the planks once again. And then again. 

His vice-like grip tightened around her jaw, cementing her head facing forwards.

“ _Don’t_ look away. Any glance away or chance to give the fight to your opponent is another move closer to where you are standing nor give up any ground unless it is the only option.”

“How do you do it?” she asked one day. “How do you just carry on as if you don’t have a care in the world when so much _evil_ is happening around you?”

“It’s how I was raised, unfortunately. But I realised something that my dear brother has not: It’s not all about you.

“ _Now_ ,” he clapped. “Let’s see how you fare with thinking your way out of a more dangerous situation. How’s your sleight of hand?”

* * *

Another chase through the corridors. That latest stealth test was a catastrophic failure and it resulted in a furious guard, nose bloody and eye swelling, charging with a single tracked mind: get the _fuck_ out of there.

Percival was, undoubtedly in the shadows somewhere close, his pristine suits melding with the background to give him a shroud to avoid detection unless one was paying close enough attention. 

Blending in, patience and remaining silent were one set of lessons they had barely touched upon. Initially, there had been a few trials - how fast and agile she was, intelligence and languages. The measured dimensions of her head was a new one, though. 

As much as she found the deception and subsequent abhorrent, it is far favourable to being chased by a rabid rugby player foaming at the mouth in fury.

In short, nothing anyone wanted to be caught by. 

Spinning around a corner, Louise dared a glance across her shoulder; between chunks of unkempt brunette this battering ram was staring down red in the face, and unable to keep up with her healthier physique, he pulled away. Puffing and red-faced, the gasping breaths drew further away and a glance was taken at the figure.

In the situational panic, Louise was more concerned with that lesson about distance. 

And kindly forget about the crates in her way. At full speed, Louise ran right into the crates, before sprawling across the floor. Winded, the brutality of the impact threw her backwards. First her lower back, then her arms and shoulders, before finally her head made contact with the ground. 

The consequences were nauseating, 

“Your speed is improving, as is your endurance,” Percival approved. “But it’s safe to say that your thieving skills require some more work.”

The wheezing form of Louise shrugged from the floor. “ _Well_ , no human is faultless,” she said blasé.

“Don’t let Miss Thorne hear you say _that_.” 

The pair smiled, Percival’s grin in particular was fond. A far shout from the calculating appearance he had the evening of their first introductions. Sitting up, she clutched onto the day’s silver lining, and made light of the 

He did not laugh back. 

“Today’s the day, isn’t it?” she said. “That’s why you’re being so strange.”

A curt nod. 

“Their meeting is being held in the top board room this evening,” he muttered, moving forward to adjust the grip on the cane _again_. “If one were to wait until the doors were closed and scurry into the next room over, they might be able to overhear its contents. Unofficially, of course.”

There was a wryness to the smile, as fleeting as kindness these days. Louise latched onto it. A hint of reassurance that what they worked towards would pay off. _Today._

* * *

(When asked later, _years_ down the line, Louise still would not repeat the words she heard spoken then. Conversation partners would notice how she paled, eyes grew cold with a fury only reserved for a select few. She would be unreachable for a few moments, and come back with a renewed dedication for the work before her.)

There are some instances in time, where you simply cannot wait for someone to take the initiative. It could be as small as asking for the bill at a restaurant, to asking the question that nobody wants to approach. _Child’s play._

This was far more significant than a food bill. 

Snow made way to rain, and then thunder. With each thunderclap, the entire building appeared the shudder and panic. A bell went off in the distance, the signal of the changing watch, muffled and lost beyond the curtain of noise. 

Louise only heard it because it’s what she was waiting for. Percival had guaranteed her an opening. For what purpose then, she had not known before. 

But she knew now. 

It was escape day. 

This was the revelation that had her crawling back to reality. One breath followed another, each droplet of rain falling through the cracks in the ceiling passing through the closing window of opportunity. 

Walking helped. Being able to know the route made it almost impossible to get lost amidst the inner turmoil. Before long, she’d walked through each checkpoint, removing each guard that asked. The news was jarring her out of the earlier amused attitude; hands jittery, mind blank, anything could give her away if she wasn’t careful. 

Somehow, that emotion blank expression was helping her case, the sharp responses to _idiotic questions standing her way_ making most move without being told twice. Until she reached the final boulder. Which was _not_ shifting. 

“ _OI!_ What are you doing in ‘ere?” the left hand moving to rest upon a knife with a serrated edge that was hanging upon his belt. 

“Didn’t you hear? Shift changeover; Percy wanted me to go around and ensure everyone knew.”

There was some scepticism; he stared, measuring her. Louise hoped the nervousness wasn’t showing in her expression, as he continued to stare at her face. 

But blissfully, he seemed to believe her. For a brief moment, the rain outside let up, with the second bell at six-fifteen being audible. 

“Come _on_ , man,” she huffed. “Other people want to go home. Stop being an arse and sort this out already."

He grumbled. The sharp tension between his shoulders did not waiver at her instruction, rather transcending throughout the entire being. He stared. He did not know what to think of her. “I need to check all the doors are locked before I go.”

She tutted. “Then fucking do it already!” 

_That_ , was like poking an angry tired bear with a stick.

“ _Stay there_ ,” he growled. “Don’t ye dare fuckin’ move.”

Louise paused, as directed. A curt nod satisfied the Blighter enough to drop his guard and turn around. He didn’t even react to the knife chopping through tendon, muscle and spine. The knife pierced through the back of his neck. Contrary to the rebuttal that Louise was expecting, he merely fell to the floor. It was _not_ quiet. 

Undoubtedly, it would draw attention. 

Then, a male voice boomed through the metal barrier.

“What’s going on?”

He was far heavier than he looked, and Louise strained to turn them over. “Give me a fucking minute!” she winced. The second attempt proved fruitful, and he was now on the front.

There was a sickening _crunch_ of bone on flooring; she did not envy the headache he would have once he came around. 

Pockets of lint and more. A tissue, folded up flat cap and finally in the jacket’s inner pocket was the _keys_! There were only two, and the choice was fruitful with her first attempt. 

Barging inside, a man lying bleeding at her heels and a haunted look, Louise must have been utterly terrifying. A horror story to those living through their own.

In her other hand, the blade dipped, and shoulders sagged. Her face softened, attempting a smile to reassure them all. 

One guy, the same man who had been lying unconscious at the first visit stood clear. Heavily scarred and littered with green semi-healed bruises, bald and decked head to toe in pea green and mustard yellow, he scowled and waited for her to move first. He was evidently the one who’d called through the door. 

Louise nodded towards him, at the challenging spark in his expression, and addressed the room. 

“You don’t need to be scared anymore; I’m taking you home.”

A moment of silence at her revelation gave way to several shocked cries, a kid screamed and began to cry once again, more rose to their feet clinging to one another. One immediately raced forward to envelop her in an embrace.

“We’re leaving. _Now_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This will be short, quick chapter," she says. "It'll be done quickly," she lies. 
> 
> I feel like I say this every time, but I honestly did not expect the chapter to reach over 5000 words. Hopefully - and I mean it this time! - the next one will be shorter, and will be THE ESCAPE! 
> 
> I must apologise for how dark this chapter got at times; it was difficult to write whilst finding that balance between believability and being safe for work etc. Future chapters will be lighter (even if there's the odd bruise or fight).
> 
> But I still have a couple of interesting thoughts and notes on the chapter above: 
> 
> number 1: "Southpaw" means left-handed boxer. Its origins are from around 1870, but language is transient and who's to say that it wasn't used a few years prior before becoming popular. Graphs and records say that it could have been used as early as the 1840s, but again, not as well-known and popular as today. 
> 
> Percival is an OC; in the database entries for Syndicate, Crawford Starrick is listed as being the younger son with an unnamed brother. Percival is that brother. In the early drafts and thoughts about this chapter, I wanted an original Templar character to be seen as her first “blooding” like Ferris and Brewster are for the Twins. 
> 
> And then after finding that out, I figured it would be far more interesting for a Double Agent in the Order, which would later explain how they received the letters and information at the beginning of each in-game sequence. 
> 
> The story with the butterfly is partially inspired by something that happened during a high school exam when I was fifteen or so? Something white fluttered a few inches in front of my face and landed on my pencil case during a mock exam. A little butterfly - it would’ve jumped onto my hand if someone a few rows behind hadn’t sneezed and startled it. 
> 
> So it landed in the middle of the walkway between desks to my right … five seconds later one of the teachers overseeing the exam walked past and stepped on it. I swear it was deliberate, as if trying to tell me to get back to work. 
> 
> The colour of the butterfly itself is also significant in the bit above; debating whether to have it white like in my original tale, but decided to make it purple for significance that will show up later.
> 
> Finally, the bit after Louise starts deciding to take the opportunity Percival presented to her, was inspired and heavily influenced by the "Dark Night" sequence in Detroit: Become Human. You might see one or two lines seeping their way through into it; the music that also plays during that is also the background music for writing both that part, and a primary piece of the next chapter.
> 
> As always, I hope you found this chapter interesting. Please leave a comment if you're able and (hopefully *hopefully*) the next chapter will be up soon!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Louise had not planned on an argument. All of the outcomes had been: walk in, get out, be a hero. Now she was being stared at like she was the Reaper herself. With bloodied knife, coat and frenzied look, how could she be the one to lead them to freedom?_
> 
> In darkness, comes light. In trouble, comes liberation. 
> 
> In comes a flawless escape plan, out comes Louise and a story to tell. 
> 
> (Trigger Warnings for: Death, injury, blood, guns, fire and cauterisation)

The burliest of the crew blinked at her. 

“Sorry, don’t think I heard you correctly… _what_.”

“We’re going. Now.” Louise clarified. There’s no time to explain, but if we get moving I can get you home.”

A woman who was holding her left arm at an awkward angle piped into the conversation. “And why are _you_ ‘elping _us_?” 

“And why not earlier?” spat another. Blood ran down his face and it was clear there was significant damage to the eye. 

Louise scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Not helping.” 

“ _But-”_

“There _isn’t the time to argue this_ ,” she said. “I’ve been able to get a small window for us to leave, and if we don’t take it then _they. Will. know_ . And there will _not_ be another.”

The heavyset bloke, the one who had first called out coughed. He appeared to have become their designated charge. He would defend them, whatever her choice was. “This is a lot you’re askin’ of us.” 

“I know,” she acknowledged. “And there’s no guarantee that this will work, either. But it’s likely the only opening we will get to at least _try_.” 

This beseeching _had_ to get through to them and it had to happen fast. Many had already seen her invitation for its honesty and were already clambering to the doorway, but most - including the tallest and most alert and confident - were staying steadfast. 

She had been part of its routine for such time that if it came to it, she could guide them through blindfolded. If they would not come now, Louise would not panic. She could hate herself later for leaving them but-

A door opened somewhere, its proximity to their slaughterhouse nobody could really tell. Everything echoed here. Undoubtedly their words had done so too. 

Like pieces of sand in an hourglass, fragments of dust settled on their stringy hair, unwashed nails, the bones that poked through skin; as each settled, a window closed. Life, escape, all fasing away from them behind bars.

Human cruelty knows no bounds, apparently. 

Louise had not planned on an argument. All of the outcomes had been: walk in, get out, be a hero. Now she was being stared at like she was the Reaper herself. With a bloodied knife, coat and frenzied look, how could _she_ be the one to lead them to freedom? 

“ _Ahem_.” 

That burly, scared man was looking at her, and had clearly been for some time. Measuring. Calculating the odds of their escape. Debating whether she would betray. He still held back, but the eyes were appraising now. 

“We will go,” he announced. Nobody argued. He appraised her before a nod that spoke wonders. “George.”

A hand extended as she did in turn, and the duo shook at their introductions. “Louise.”

“You’ve started this now, songbird,” he nodded to the floor. “Might as well see this through to the end.”

Her brow furrowed, confused. “What do you-” George was captivated by something beyond her; frustrated with the delays, he placed his hands upon her shoulders and span her to view the scene. She looked down to the red-jacketed man. He had not yet moved. “ _Oh fuck._ ” 

George raised an eyebrow. “What? D’you want a medal, songbird? You’ll kill more people before this over.” 

“Hopefully you mean them and not … _you know_ ,” free arm flapping between the pair. 

Stunned, George blinked once, twice. It would be almost comical if not in a life or death situation such as theirs. “ _Well_ … seeing as _this_ prick-” he tapped the dead weight with his foot. “-loved to natter, we’ve all had the glory of hearin’ about the madwoman who punched ol’ Maxwell.”

“Oh, I have a reputation? That’s _fun_.” 

He didn’t face that with an answer, although there was a pointed glance at the elderly couple in the far corner. It’s to them, unmoving and not clambering to their feet, that Louise went to next. 

If this young woman thought she was cold, then the duo - robust and made of far sterner stuff than her - were living figures of snow. 

Her touch seemed to do a world of good for them, as each curled around and centred themselves to this fiery spirit before them. 

“You should leave us, darlin’,” he rasped. The elderly man was slow to move and the woman was not much better. “We’ll only slow yer down.”

It was a punch right to her gut. She felt _physically_ wounded by the overwhelming defeat and acceptance prescribed to them. 

“ _No_ ,” she whispered, shaking her head. Louise’s hand holding tighter. The wrist was so thin so _boney_ that one wrong move might snap the bones like pencil lead. 

A punch from some capricious foe might do some lethal damage to them. _Walking_ would be simpler … provided it was a level surface of flooring all the way to the door. 

_It would be quicker to leave them_ , some bitter note came forward in a voice so distinctly familiar. Glancing to George, he said nothing, instead turning back to the pockets of their fallen jailor. 

Disgusted by the notation, she shook her head. “The walk to the exit isn’t that far.”

“We won’t make it.”

“Then we will carry you if we have to.” 

No room for argument. They would be coming with her. _Everyone_ was. 

Helping the pair stand, her following sentences were light and whispered beneath her breath, almost as if speaking to the self rather than the many. “I cannot leave you here.”

Tears welled, disbelief swarmed their features, and a shaking boney claw patted her forearm. _So light_. Even with all of their energy and inadvertently grasping at her injured arm, 

“So which way first?”

Louise nodded to the doorway. “Left, and then through a room or two, and then a sprint.”

“That all?” he huffed. “And we’ve been sitting here on our asses all this time.” 

“Doubt the rain’ll stop by that point.”

“In that case-”

The cap was thrust back into her hands.

“Not yer colour I know. But it’s _pissing_ it down outside and, _well_ -“ he chuckled. “I’d want to see the fuckers about to kill me.”

“ _Again_ ,” Louise scoffed, wrestling the cap onto flyaway hair as she walked out the door. “You’re not helping.”

* * *

Those who could fight went at the front and the back of the party; Louise at its helm, guiding through threadbare corridors, and George at the rear. Anyone injured or simply too young or old escaped within the centre of their congregation. Protected, the party could then wove ahead in some confidence without risking leaving them behind. 

A million thoughts raced around in the dark; Louise dealing with the true feeling behind killing a human being and not just a simulation this time around. Abstergo has shown death before, seemingly by her own hands or witnessing someone drop a man off a cliff, but not this way. Not this _raw_ and _real_ . The way in which her step wanted nothing more than to stop and turn back, that a creaky floorboard could mean the deaths of far more - _was it left or right through this doorway?_ \- drove her forward as much as it called her back. 

_This is illegal_ . Cried one voice. _But so is human trafficking_ , rallied another. Her head screamed through such thoughts as tossed and tumbled for dominance in her soul. Training and _however long_ of that horror had dampened thoughts and panic. The hopelessness overrode the fear at some point. Nowhere worse to fall, might as well go forwards.

Oddly enough, the rumbles of Thor’s thunder surrounding them as the ragtag bunch moved on gave her strength. Louise’s mind was clearer than it had been for a long time. One goal was in reach, and then it was _over_. 

Just, one _small_ issue. 

With a sinking sensation, their route was not empty anymore. Louise had underestimated how long it would take for the shifts to change, failing to account for those who were late or smoked or anything else she didn’t do. 

“ _Shit_ ,” she hissed. “The next shift has already started moving in. The main door’s blocked.” 

“Well we’d be a lot further if you hadn’t kept panicking,” someone muttered from the back. She _knew_ who had elected to speak up _again_.

She snorted, looking out again. “I can still fucking leave you behind if you want.”

_Silence._

“Thought so.”

 _Deep breath_ . “Right. _Okay_ .” she steadied herself before glancing over her shoulder. “They don’t seem to know that we’re here, so we’re going to try and jump them. I’ll distract them, and when his eye’s off the doorway, _just run_.”

A shared silent nod was passed and then responded to by George, and then she was away. 

Compared to the overarching pallets of content and boxes which blocked routes earlier in the day, now the area had been almost gutted. Hiding places which she had been counting on for a direct route to the door was now all but eradicated. A few rows of boxes closer to the walls lay here and there, giving some avenues of approach, but she would still have to vault over if the quickest way of removing the duo was to be utilised. 

Stepping forward, Louise now became vehemently aware that the flooring here was far more receptive to pressure than that outside. The whole room amplified more echoes to act as it own security system; from small creaking boxes to the distinct click of a heel, and even a whispered curse would become echoed for everyone to hear. 

Those same boxes from earlier. Stacked, and the result of a tumble she had no plans on repeating if she wished to live. Now, the only way to get past. 

In her crouched position, Louise pushed more of her body weight onto the balls of her feet and set off. Darting to the nearest line of cover through shadows, she made her way onwards.

Clambering up on top of the boxes stacked there, she had to pause and hold her breath as the cheap wooden exteriors were creaking and groaning beneath her hands, weight and feet. Neither really paid it much attention, and the heavier _SNAP_ was disguised by a _perfectly_ timed crack of thunder.

A peek over the top as lightning flashed through the chipped single pane windows gave the standing of the duo; they were a lot closer to where they were, likely having moved to stare out the window at something Louise couldn’t see herself. 

One crack, and then another. A whoosh of wind and she let herself fall.

The landing wasn’t wooden flooring, but instead skin, bone, and muscle. The corpse of an unfortunate red coat jailor who did not move in time. 

Sadly, she had misaimed her jump, and only one of the two smokers had been taken out. The other had moved just in the nick of time; at the breeze beside him, he turned back to the scene. As she straightened, he roared.

“ _OI!_ What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” she spat back. 

At her refusal, the defiance and the sight of a swarm of the freed individuals they had once abused, this brawler bristled and shoved her backwards.

Without the footing, Louise found herself thrown against the boxes – including one opened package that was knocked ajar allowing a peek inside. And right _there_ , atop a plush red silk presentation was the rapier. 

With this extra space, she swiped wide drawing it from the box. The momentum meant the sheath flew into empty space (almost hitting someone else) and held it ready, outstretched. 

The bull of a man charged right into the point of her blade. It sank deep within his breast, and he coughed and wheezed. 

He plummeted the two meters to the floor with a _THUMP_ , and Louise jumped over him to reach the latches and keys sealing them in. 

Her hands met the mechanism to open their route as both George’s crew and their enemies claimed the field of battle. Knives to a gunfight was surely a terrible idea, yet they were making it work. (For now.)

Bullets peered through the panels and she shrieked, ducking as a volley flew mere inches from her head. The chain just slipped from between her fingers and she dived out of the way, and the doors began to close on them. Without that tension, they would be stuck. A lunge, narrowly avoiding the more bullets that dogged her steps and Louise tried for the chains once more.

As more fell, the terrain grew crowded, and even the insurgents tripped and stumbled. Their advances had paused, and the volleys increased. 

The chain slipped through her fingers, sweaty palms and Louise had to practically sink to the floor to maintain the momentum she had made up opening the weights. 

Somewhere down the corridor, from the way they had travelled came the first roar of grief. A cackle that quickly turned into a shriek, a gunshot, a thud. 

“ _Eddie!_ ”

Her first earth-shattering cries of grief and panic caught attention, and for just a moment, the fighting dipped on one side. More dropped like a stone. 

The first few managed to wrangle their way between boxes and bullets, corpses and calamity to reach her; the young child was shrieking and snotty and just catatonic with fear as he was whisked from his feet and carried. 

She nodded to that quaking skeletal young boy clamped to the elderly woman’s side. “Cover his eyes,” she shouted over to his guide.

“Charlie’s already seen far worse than this, lassie.”

“Then let’s make sure he doesn’t see anything _else_.”

“Songbird!” George bellowed. “It’s time to go!”

She concurred; the flames from that one singular pipe - that which her landing cushion-come-Blighter had been smoking - had rolled beneath boxes. There, its embers had found dry fuel, health and safety in uproar, and where once she has been shivering in the damp freeze of the containers she was being confronted by a wall of dry heat. 

Opening the main two gates the rest of the way had exacerbated their situation, flames licked the ceilings hungrier than ever before, and metals were slowly becoming unbearable to handle. Skin pricked from the intensity of the bonfire feet away; broiling would commence if they remained there for long enough. 

Her rally was a wordless cry, a pointed gesture painted by blood and the shadows cast throughout the room. The stench of roasting flesh choked her as she dived outside into the unknown.

* * *

If Louise had been under the impression that it was noisy inside the warehouse, then she was not prepared for the calamitous uproar that awaited them outside.

Screaming. Crying. Shouting. All of those natural emotions in a cacophony melded with the sounds themselves created and derived from their hell. Bedlam. Utter madness was unfolding before them as they fled.

From the outside, it might well have been any ordinary warehouse. With the silence within masked by the noise surrounding it, there might have been any kind of machinery manufacturing inside. Screams could have been masked, explained away as injured in the line of work. It was upon the banks of the Thames, which surprised her, and a perfect way for the corpses to be disposed of and undiscoverable. 

Their warehouse of horrors blended in _perfectly_ in an uncaring city. Someone could have helped them at _any_ time … and just didn’t care enough to find them.

Rock Bottom, this was it. Deemed expendable and such, nobody had bothered to find them because there was no _reason_ to do so for them. It would make anyone disheartened and lose morale, but Louise found the mix of emotions coming to a head. 

The rain was _freezing_ , even with the heat radiating from the bonfire they had created. 

But the smoke and mirrors charade was up. The flame had reached the uppermost floors of the complex now, tendrils punching through windows and reclaiming the structure. Flames peeked through the roofing, and were somewhat dampened in the rain yet it proved the stronger. 

As the fight spread this way and that, stray bullets, hands trying to clasp and restrain, Louise was bitterly grateful that her hair was sheared to above her shoulders. 

More bullets streamed from the shadows to meet them. Several fell mere feet from the open gateway and _freedom_. Others tripped upon the corpses of liberated souls as they dropped to the cobbles. 

A pair who has been startled by the sudden change in circumstances had sprung into action. Once merely spectating, they panicked at a sight beyond the group and frantically dived for the chains that pulled the gates shut. 

Weakened from being abused for so long, bottlenecked into one slowly retreating passage to gradually pick off one by one. _Target practise_. 

The chains echoed, and foam of desperate innocents formed at the bottom. They prised at every opening or seam they could, nails scraping down wooden chips and serrated bricks. Some had made it out before they were sealed, the fastest and least injured, those with the least conscience who saw light and swarmed. 

“Get the gates open!”

More bullets. More fallen. A couple were even man-handled away, dragged by hair, shirt, beard, arm. Laughter. Jeering. 

Slow clapping boomed amongst the crowds and thunder. Deafening as it cut through the calamity. 

A rich, eloquent voice followed; a call to arms. 

Struck dumb, dearly hoping any tears would be masked by the downpour, Louise’s run tapered off into a jog at the sight, then to a walk and finally coming to a stop. 

The group at the gate continued their task, but those further away like George, Louise and young Charlie, turned to their new arrivals. That explained why the duo at the gate panicked, when the devils themselves had sauntered in. 

Not _again_. 

Once more a mentor figure, some who she allowed her deepest fears and the one Louise _trusted_ to lead her to do some good, once again, had abused that trust. Another test. Another trap. 

Nothing made her feel so _used_ than at that moment. _That utter Bastard._

“All these people _died_ because of you,” Percival, arms flung wide, called amongst the calamity. “If you had only listened to your betters, let us teach you how to be _great_ , they would instead be singing your praises as their protector.”

The first words out of her mouth were not words, but instead a whine. Poking a healing injury, just to exacerbate its effect. 

Flummoxed, Louise scrambled for words and found none. 

From the yearning faces scrambling from the fires that were eating away at where their torture chamber had been, to the twisted ideologies of Percival and his colleagues. Behind him, just _watching_ , was Lucy Thorne. Someone was even holding an _umbrella_ for her to remain in such pristine condition.

There was something about seeing this, being exposed to the rain that made her feel different. More energised and alert. The cold grounded her, kept her awake, not enticed with the comfort of heat and exhaustion of insomnia. 

Any time she could spare would be vital to everyone escaping. If she chickened out, if the courage failed _now_ , they would be lost. A critical moment not taken advantage of, _exactly_ what she was worried about, now taking centre stage to humiliate her.

Louise swallowed. Her temper was rising and she was _so_ desperate to scream back, to shout dissent. 

If she died standing there then at least it would _not_ be silent. 

Her fury was growing so intense that her breathing grew laboured, empty hand now lurched to make her move. But training - _their_ training - kicked in, and all she did was trip herself up. 

He _relished_ in his victory. “You are nothing but a monster. They will never accept you for what you’ve done - but we _will._ ” Hands held outstretched across the space of No Man’s Land between them, yet eyes bore into her. His words held a resemblance of humanity but there was no sympathy in those old eyes. 

She focused for a moment, as if to consider, but let that tug from somewhere within her take over. For a moment the world once again dulled, and where she’d expected perhaps a natural inclination to him, but her hackles just raised. It was something she would never be able to explain to someone who could not do the same.

Elements were conflicting; while there were individuals which she felt even _more_ abhorred by. Percival … was somewhere in-between. On the cusp of either path, he could be that greatest enemy or rock-solid mentor she sought after. 

Her hesitation, the bead of hope that he may not have completely sided against her, gave him the edge and he lurched forward. Hand went for the throat but instead clamped down upon the sodden collar. 

His white-knuckled grip on her collar ripped her further away from her comfort zone. 

All eyes were being drawn to their faces, the sneering words passed by the Lordly man. What they didn’t see was the stealth of his hands, was the slip of paper being slipped into the breast pocket of her jacket. 

“Go to the address; George will know who to meet.” 

There was no room for confirmation, no opportunity for her to ask him to repeat the frankly _bizarre_ turn of events. Gaping like a fish, barely clutching onto the walkway by but the tip of one shoe.

“You need to shoot me,” he hissed. “Just once. And then _go_.”

As if she needed more convincing; as she was thrown to the floor, the spike of pain that jolted through the arm which took the brunt of the impact and she scrambled across the stones to move away. 

They were still laughing, _of course they were_. 

There was no time to aim. The bullet, however, miraculously found its target amongst the mayhem. A lead bullet sank its jaw into the noble’s lower leg, he crumpled, hitting his head on the stonework beneath and, with a frustrated roar in her direction called forth the charge. 

Those who had previously been retreating from the scene were now hedging their bets in bringing in the mastermind of destruction. It’s just _one woman_ ? How difficult could it be? By any means necessary, she would _stay_ if she did not admit that running was an option. 

Rain made the cobblestone slippery, and Louise’s hands could not purchase well. The aching shoulder meant two, three, _four_ attempts to stabilising herself to get back to being upright.

It took _forever_ to stand, and by the moment she was again on her feet the group had become an army. Now outnumbered three to one, with just a few people left to go. 

Louise swore loudly. And then got to work. Whilst outnumbered, more were content in trying to put out the blaze or just sit back and become bystanders to this. Not wanting to subject themselves but not stop it either.

“Come on, songbird!” came the shout from the wall. “You can think about your life choices later! I’m not waitin’ for you!”

The words appeared to bring something out within her, and her feet began their trek back to the wall. 

As she gave ground, _they_ advanced. 

Ducking under arms which tried to grab, her adrenaline was waning; the five-minute escape had extrapolated into an hour-long odyssey. One got lucky, snagging her right wrist. A punch downwards to a brittle forearm dealt swiftly before a headbutt met its mark and the insurgent dropped backwards.

Groaning, Louise bent over and picks up the sword. It took a moment to steady herself to avoid joining her stunned compatriot on the floor. 

_Add ‘learn to headbutt someone properly’ to that list of things to do_. 

Now armed and finding comfort in that fact, Louise conceded to their desires and joined the flight. 

Only a few people remained; her, George in sweat-stained green, a woman in her mid-thirties he was boosting up the rain-slicked gate, and the young Charlie. 

She ran. They would have help, even if she were last, they would _have_ help. 

The run wasn’t that far from her fallen state, but the time in which her back was turned was enough of an opening for someone more alert and angrier. 

The emaciated woman was over the wall; Charlie was screaming; George turning, gun at the ready.

And then there was blood through her shoulder. 

Rain and ash fell into her mouth and she gasped for strength and tried not to scream. Or throw up.

Pulling her hand away to see a diluting pink drowning in the deluge, the raw ache exacerbated by the cold and the wind and the adrenaline were all combining to bite and sink its teeth in deeper. Pain dripped down right to the fingertips, and with the damage already there, and poking it didn’t exactly help. She winced, confused for a moment at the noise, and then glanced to the others. 

A bawling Charlie was wrenched from the floor as she watched; George first boosting him from the waist and then feet to another too high to see before finally being swaddled beyond to safety. 

Shrieks, shouted commands, and Charlie was _safe_. 

Leaning more against the wall than upon her own support, she focused as much as she could fathom and wrenched a lead-heavy foot in his clasped hands. 

“But…. _How_?” She stammered, blinking rain from her eyes as she glanced upwards and back to him. 

“ _Go!_ ” she groaned, closing her eyes, and waiting for the weightlessness.

If that climb was rough then the fall from the other side of the great was far worse. All had anticipated her being able to hold onto the wall and drop down the other side, but it was far too slick. With blood, sweat and rain littering the surface and but a single free hand to cling on with, she fell like a stone. 

The top of the gate was now level with her mid-torso, the action was less about getting herself over and more trying to not fall upon her head or neck. One leg reached up and over, the hand still clutching the tempered steel sword followed, and then the sensation of feet meeting the road. Dark and uneven, her ankle gave way as she re-met the floor, crumpling. Almost as quickly came outstretched hands to catch her, pull her up. 

And suddenly George was standing to her left. There was more blood on his shirt than before she had vaulted the gate. Charlie broke through and swapped upon him, refusing to let go, trails of snot and tears more visible than face. 

“Lead us home, big man.”

A _roar_ , the fury of a godly presence on earth pierced through then, seemingly an encore called in the barrage that followed. No bullets pierced through, but that was enough to get them moving.

The rain continued, masking their route from any curious eyes. 

* * *

This time, the roles had reversed; with Louise the rearguard, George guided the ragtag bunch of misfits through rat tunnels, underground and wherever seemed the safest. Even ages from when she was most familiar with its geography, London is London. Zone 1 and its central belly might have been where she lived, but the Docklands were still vital and recognisable. Fewer conventions, though.

They walked through the night into the early hours. The distance they had to cover wasn’t as far they might’ve thought, but they were all jumpy. Each alley cat screeching, slamming pub doors or the workers trawling home in the first light, every carriage that clambered down the main roads sent them diving for cover.

An anxious wait for silence. Then they continue for the same thing to happen but ten minutes later. 

But George led them true; with a few shortcuts through industrial parks, as Louise defended silently from the rear, they made good time through the weaving paths and back alleys throughout London’s boroughs. 

Charlie’s tears had dried along the trek, and eventually, George had him asleep and the toddler’s arms clinging around his neck. It had taken a bit of time, with the calamity of rain and consuming nighttime had not aided in alleviating his anxiety. 

Around sunrise, he woke and kept staring towards Louise at the back. And like the toddler, she had spoken few words in the hours that followed. 

The empty guttural emotion of those first weeks had still not left her, and now walking among their numbers - shorn and dwindled from the group that had arrived not even two days before - Louise felt choked by the sobs and underlying anxiety that followed them. 

The burning sensation that followed every move, the flames that licked as she stumbled upon cobblestones and began to bite at her bones in the evening chills, didn’t seem that harsh. Not _enough_ of a punishment. 

A bell tolled in the distance signalling an early start for them all; paths and roads once deserted now saw tendrils of life, downcast faces were rising and making their way through in a trance.

First came an annoying buzzing didn’t trouble them so they paid it no mind. Then it grew more urgent, echoing from anywhere and everywhere, and then gradually growing a clanging bell and then another echoed from elsewhere in the borough; and each of their party watched an assortment of fire engines clamber down the streets. 

Soot and rain and blood-soaked faces crouched in the nearest covered hideaway as they watched another move towards flames visible in the skyline, and the following police cab.

It clattered down the street at full pelt, horses wheezing and harsh breaths clouding the air in its wake. 

George sighed. Running a hand down his face, he hissed behind him to the others. Nine were left of the group now, but only seven other voices spoke back.

He frowned and turned back to the group. Seven shivering faces peered back at him, one crouched by the heroine of the hour a concerned hand shaking her knee. A heel of her boot had wedged against a cobble as she had fallen into her seat whilst the other leg remained flat and outstretched. The blade of the rapier lay atop of it, hand near the hilt but no longer touching. Her head was tilted back to glance skywards, teeth gritted, and her left hand still clamped around the bloodied patch of her shirt. 

“Move yer hand, lass,” he grumbled. 

George’s brow furrowed as they stared between themselves over what to do. The lanky ginger Irishman from earlier had already vocalised his desire to just _leave ‘er already_!

“Miss? You still ‘ere?”

“ _Just ‘bout_ ,” Louise managed to get out. “‘M so _tired_.”

No response. A calloused hand appeared out of nowhere to turn her head to the side, her nose wrinkled and a mumbled “Just five more minutes.”

The hand kept a hold on her jaw, and as her eyes drooped once more she melted into it. From _somewhere_ a woman’s voice appeared to whisper mere millimetres from her to _wake up!_ Louise lurched forward, pushing out of the grip on her face and into those waiting to catch her failing consciousness. 

“Brad, pick ‘er up,” someone urged. “We’ll take ‘er to my sister.”

Before she could find it within her to protest, an arm was beneath her knees and behind her back, and the group receded. Her hand, clutching at _something_ and had not let go since her injury, relaxed. The sound of something falling to the floor echoed behind them and sent for the rats to enjoy. 

* * *

A door being thrown open brought her back to the realm of the living. 

With a cotton-y mouth Louise moved to ask _what the everloving fuck was going on_ , but whoever was carrying her was not a gentle soul. Speed rather than comfort was the name of the game here, as she was jolted, wincing in their arms as several flights of stairs were taken as speed. 

Pounding steps before them in the hazy dim and a door was burst open. Louise felt George’s voice rumble more than heard the shouts. 

“ _Clear the table!”_

Scraping chair legs on the floor, a new woman’s voice shouting orders and then shouting swears as what was clearly a glass shattered in the wave of movement. Cupboards were thrown open and then slammed closed and boxes were rifled through. Frantically searching for something to help here.

Whoever had dropped her on the table was not gentle, and she shrieked as the wound was agitated once more. Another unseen hand reached out to place pressure on it, poke it, _prod_ it before scuttling away as quickly as they had arrived. 

Arching her back in pain away from the table, a heel of her boots dug into a crack among the woodwork. With one foot she was able to get a purchase and tried kicking out. _It had worked once right?_

Trying to speak. The injured woman was made conscious as to how her breaths were far more laboured than they had been before, and sweat-drenched hair clung to her neck and forehead. Louise felt searing hot but also frigid and cold. 

George’s voice pierced through the din. “Lottie! Poker: _fire_!” 

The coat was ripped from her shoulders, and a knife was produced from somewhere. Its stained teeth gnawed away at the stitches affixing the sleeve to the main body of the blouse. The heavy fabrics had to be peeled away. 

At the sensation of bared skin, Louise brought up her hand to draw it back. Fighting against the hands trying to keep her still, she growled back.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_.” 

George’s face swam into view in the storm above her. “Sorry songbird, but it’s gotta be done.”

She nodded once. “I know. Get it out and sew it up. Not that hard to do.”

“No time to sew,” he huffed, rolling up his sleeves. “If we wait, you won’t make it.”

She _whined_ , realising just why his first port of call had been to ready a fire. They were going to cauterise it. 

“Fuck you! I’m not going through this sober.”

A bottle of _some_ disgusting cheap alcohol was thrust out of nowhere and several mouthfuls were downed before the taste hit hard enough to make her puke. Louise’s last thought before passing out once more was just how the _fuck_ was she going to explain this if anyone started asking questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main writing music for this chapter was the "Dark Night" from Detroit: Become Human. It's creepy and definitely set that feeling of "this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong", not the kind of music you should have on shuffle overnight when you struggle to sleep (from personal experience).
> 
> But I wanted to have some major show of Louise doing *something* here, that the escape wasn't her just leading them out the front door; people would most likely stop them from escaping, and not everyone is probably going to make it. The ordeal was sort of a way of showing what she could be capable of, both in a good or a bad context.
> 
> Plus - what's up with Percival?! Starrick's older brother but, helping them against Templar wishes? oooooh. #Top10AnimeBetrayals
> 
> And as much as the escape is important for getting the plot moving, I do still consider this chapter a filler; we don't see Louise achieve much else other than running, and it was difficult to complete for that reason (she says, constantly finding new little bits to add in here and there to flesh it out).
> 
> The way she sort of ... doesn't react to her injury at the end before vaulting the wall was meant to be a hint that shock was setting in; adrenaline had been going for so long, and she just doesn't _stop_ until she is practically dropping from exhaustion and blood loss. But also given the training she was forced to do - which will be explored a bit retroactively later on - it makes sense that she would just ignore the pain for a moment and get the job done before worrying.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Walking down the wintery morning streets, Louise could not have been more alien and out of place if she’d tried. Rubbing shoulders with immaculately dressed women in flourishing dresses and police in uniforms pressed and decorated within an inch of their life, she instead drowned beneath the stolen cap and jacket, borrowed shirt, feeling the large target placed upon her back."
> 
> The second path becomes illuminated for Louise, as she is introduced to the new-old-historic? world around her, and faces are revealed in the fog.

_ Peace and Quiet _ .

It was all chaos and panic the last time she was conscious, and now … serenity. Birds, a wisp of a breeze outside their windows. Someone was humming as a light clicking worked its methodical song. Knitting? It was methodical, homely and bittersweet, and not what she was expecting. 

_ What were you doing? What  _ is  _ that? _

Scrunching her features at the tapping which echoed in her temples and ringing muted noise, Louise opened her eyes. She found herself lying on a frankly uncomfortable wooden table, staring up at a barren and leaking ceiling.  _ No electrics _ , she thought with her brow creasing. Somewhere beneath her was a toddler’s tantrum, the screaming cut so deep through this peaceful lull that Louise started. Jolting so violently she may have near leapt off the table. 

“Didn’t think you’d be awake so soon.” came a voice to her right. There sat a woman older in appearance than her age, but was roughly in her late 20s to early 30s. Her mannerisms assumed she was in her mid-thirties, yet they felt older when paired with the sheer haunting guilt and worry laden beneath the sympathy in her eyes. Her dull, dusty blonde hair had clearly not been taken out of its pinned up-do, flyaway pieces wisped up at all angles. 

“...how long was I out?”

“Less than a day,” she said. “It’s still early in the morning. George - bless him - brought you ‘ere yesterday.’”

She had no response planned. Part of her had been hoping for  _ just  _ a bit longer to rest. 

“D’you want some help sitting?”

Louise exhaled. “ _ Please. _ ”

The woman rose and stood on Louise’s right. Careful hands braced the younger woman with one hand upon her forearm, and the other against the back just beneath where she had been injured. Louise’s left arm clamped itself to the edge of the table, creating a somewhat anchor point before rising. It was a momentous ask, with both somewhat worse for wear, but with some choice swears, Louise was sitting upon the table. 

There was a light sheen of sweat upon her brow, stomach rumbling, dull thumping in her ears. 

This figure moved away, with a comment about tea, and Louise took the space to shift into a somewhat more comfortable position to talk. 

Her legs dangled over the edge of the table, swinging slightly as she watched. Her nails and fingers traced the scars in the table wood, and simply revelled in the quiet. The breeze was soothing and its light chill threw back the final crumbs of sleep. 

Louise had no idea what to do. Should she try and make her way to the derelict sitting area - in reality, one sofa that had been discarded over and over again, patched with scraps and more. 

She returned after a time, with that promised cup of team and pressed it into Louise’s filthy hands. The left responded to its possession immediately, curling around and finding the warmth revitalising. 

The gifter did not immediately draw back. Frowning, she cupped Louise’s right forearm and ponded the vines of scarring. Careful to not exacerbate an injured muscle or two she looked closer at the damage, lightly prodding at the raised marks. The blonde tutted to herself, muttering something about  _ unsightly  _ and  _ going to be difficult to hide _ . 

“I swear I remember…?” she frowned. “... were there more people here earlier?”

“Most of ‘em have already headed off to work for the day,” the blonde said. “George works nights mainly so  _ should _ be back soon enough.” 

There was something about the way she said ‘working nights’ that made her hesitant to know exactly  _ what  _ she meant by that. Possibilities of the answer made her tremble slightly absent of the chill, and she listened beyond their walls for anything which could tell her more. 

Each scrape of the cabinets being jostled and searched through, or slowly creaking floorboards where she couldn’t see had Louise further on edge. Goosebumps littered her skin, and Louise quietened again. Who  _ was  _ this woman before her? This wasn’t a trick, right? 

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Not with all the -” vague hand waves. “Charlotte. Some of that lot call me Lottie.” 

A sheepish smile in response that lasted only a fraction of a second, cautiously putting forward her hope led her answer to be honest. “Louise.”

A cracked and scalded hand was brushed against her forehead. First, palm then knuckles, and after a moment Lottie hummed evidently satisfied. 

“No sign of a fever, which is a good sign,” she said. “You’re not even a  _ little  _ bit peaky.”

Her jacket was long gone, and so she could see that the skin on her arm was somewhat paler than normal; she had been sitting in that breeze for a while, most likely all night without a blanket. 

“You’ve got a strong spirit there, missy. Definitely living up to your name. That is  _ some  _ fight in you.” 

“Didn’t do much good in the end though, did it?” 

“And how many people did you bring home? ‘Cause at sunrise yesterday there was nobody, and no hope. There has been some  _ real  _ change for what you did.”

She reached the hand over and grasped this damaged spirit before her. 

“Okay?” she almost whispered. The smile was still kind, brightening the walls and radiating joy. 

Louise was vaguely aware she was nodding, but not paying attention. She observed, trying to get her head around the level of sincerity within the words. Cautiously, the younger woman moved to believe her. 

“ _ Attagirl _ ,” she said. The maternal figure then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Louise noted just how she smelt of  _ nothing  _ but the city life and coarse medicinal soaps. 

Frowning as she pulled back, she rested the back of her hand against Louise’s forehead and then her cheeks, checking the temperature. 

“ _ Christ _ , you’re freezing!” She tutted. “Come on, let’s see if we can’t find you a better shirt than that shoulderless rag. No point in your survivin’ that and dyin’ of cold.”

* * *

The shirt was thin and thread worn; repaired and embroidered again and again, the cotton and lace were near antiques. Easily clear was that it was taken from Charlotte’s  _ only  _ professional outfit. Sunday best for church perhaps? 

She had tried so  _ hard  _ to refuse it; she just  _ couldn’t _ take it. But Lottie had been adamant and so it had been shoved in her hands, giving her no choice but to accept it and make use. “It’s not like I’ll be fitting into it again any time soon,” Charlotte had joked, a hand resting on her swollen middle. 

The ruined cotton she’d been wearing was now a makeshift underlayer, to sit between the corset and bare skin.  _ A corset _ . All the years of hearing tales of women with 19-inch waists and fainting couches aplenty had made her reluctant to don the support garment, but it wasn’t like she was going to find a sports bra anywhere. Plus there was that  _ small  _ desire to try it out for herself. 

Louise was by no means large, but even with months of significant muscle gain, she wondered whether she’d be able to fit. And years of differing levels of nutrition had fundamentally impacted the height of the duo - Louise was easily several inches taller and broader around her shoulders. 

Yet fully laced, there was nothing asphyxiating about it; a tad tight, sure – it  _ was  _ borrowed from a far more slender woman (even if she was pregnant). Louise breathed deeply. Everything was fine, and she didn’t  _ feel  _ light-headed walking with it laced. After a time it merely felt similar to the sensation of wearing a close-fitting coat. It was easy to forget it was there in time.

Injured shoulder through the sleeve first, and then the other. Considering that Louise could barely raise the right without strangled swears, she was thankful for the help. 

If Louise had thought that her prisons had been hollow shells, then here it was something else entirely. Perhaps it was the change of context, that here there was not business but merely private affairs being conducted, merely a relaxing environment driven by the relaxing ambience of the barely stocked fire, security despite the lack of it.

The whole room felt  _ sad _ ; that there was some underlying morose affliction (that was probably just the mould and condensation) that spoke of penniless people and a degree of exploitation. Louise got the impression that they were paying out of the nose for this. Far too much for far too little. 

Charlotte’s flat held more trinkets and non-essential items that the warehouse along the banks, yet it was more useful equipment; each item held intimate value with the stories behind it, a cacophony of uses proving it irreplaceable in her daily life. Nothing was just discarded and wasted because items simply  _ couldn’t  _ be - ruined bloody shirts were torn to rages and became cleaning materials and bandages, makeshift products for hygiene. Chipped glasses and plates were ignored, and food scraps were  _ only  _ sent to the waste bin or gardens if it was mouldy beyond saving. 

The tea in her hands was weak, not for its milky nature as had been typical of an old flatmate’s brew, but from leaves boiled time and time again before it had come to her. Regardless, it had been the first drink she had been presented with for almost two days and it was not going to be cast away. It took some time for her to finish it all as she paced herself, but her stomach settled once it grew used to taste and texture. 

Having finally consumed something after so long did at least help with the drumming behind her temples, Louise relented and allowed Charlotte to help with the rat’s nest of hair. A bowl of tepid water had been brought from the fire and she bent over it for a quick wash. Hands wrought through her hair; fingers barely reached an inch without meeting some tyrannical knot. Some had become so matted at the crown of the head where a ponytail would be tied that they had to be cut out. 

Choked swears and determined fingers were brushed away by a contemplative Charlotte. The mane was still too short to put up into a bun or properly tie it back from Louise’s face, but swatches from the front were twirled around and pinned at the back of her head, giving her a small wispy crown of braids. 

“There!” She stepped back to admire her work. “You look at least  _ passable  _ for a human now.”

Charlotte –  _ Lottie _ , she kept insisting Louise call her that – was right. Already with more layers between skin and coat, she was already feeling better. The movement from dressing had also helped her right forearm; it was still tender but the pins and needles sensation was at least receding a little, and responses were quicker.

The bread was chalky and heavy, and that fried ‘bow-wow mutton’ nearly made a re-appearance in the wave of nausea that returned. But it would do, and it was not like she could be picky. With the food now gone Louise was feeling more  _ complete  _ and even feeling the strength to walk around a little.

Charlotte was told to sit down herself, eat her own food, leaving the student to wash the dishes in her place. The rhythm she set herself into, passing each plate from hand to hand, the delicacy with the cups eased nerves and there was the onset of a genuine smile as she looked down.

She refilled one with more tea for Charlotte. 

The glass panes had a film of frost and ice which was just barely melting from the inside of the window, and the light noise of its drips caught her. There was just this  _ compulsion  _ to stop it from making a mess. She could wipe it with her sleeve, but then the cuffs would get wet…

Maybe if she quickly opened the window and left the excess to drip outside? 

Flinging the droplets off the cloth she’d retrieved from the sink, a shout downwind caused a pause; looking outside, Louise’s hand gripped the windowsill for support as she was captivated by the world beyond their fifth-story window.

* * *

Her nails were sinking into the warping wooden window frame. Wonky and old, it  _ hurt _ , splinters were rife and she knew that she’ll regret it later. Especially considering the blood on her hands began to itch as it dried. Undoubtedly, she was a  _ mess  _ of stains and war. 

The sun had made its ascent in the time she had stood as sentinel; as it rose, so did the activity. London was  _ always  _ full of calamity and noise: the stream of traffic upon her roads and boats upon the Thames, the array of conversations on the streets, the cheering and singing from the bandstand … the atmosphere here felt  _ complete _ . It’s what made the city feel human. 

But gone was the insistent beeping of horns and ring of mobile phones. In their places were the cries of vendors selling all sorts of trinkets and miracle cures Louise knew would solve nothing, the clipping of horseshoes from carriages of the wealthier portion of the city, so encompassing, so close and so distant. 

It felt like she’d stumbled upon the set of a period drama, as cliche as that is to mention. But the familiarity of, say, Downton Abbey or Gentleman Jack, to what she was seeing helped in grounding herself. Louise knew that what lay beyond here wasn’t the end of the world - there would be elements she could recognise. They had sent her somewhere dangerous and were likely waiting for either her return or reports of her death, but they had underestimated her will to prove them wrong. If Louise was to stay, and perhaps even thrive in this new environment, there were few places so well equipped to help her.

Getting dressed into that new ensemble, being forced to run through the wintery fog, didn’t seem to register as one connected narrative. Part of her was  _ aware  _ this was London but not her London; she had seen no tube stations along their run, no electrics, no  _ cars _ and even the noise was different now. But? The pieces didn’t click for her until she found herself stuck at that window.

Charlotte, however, this kind and selfless being, and as the hour drained into a full waking day, the city alive beneath their feet, was giving her assistance with no conditions. Wait… Victorian England… Which meant no help and no way to ask  _ for  _ help without paying for pretty much anything.

She choked up her words from remnants of dwindling courage. “… How much did you waste trying to find a doctor?”

“A favour,” Lottie assured. “He crawled out of hell with you; they paid you back.”

_ A favour _ . 

“Although, if you keep ‘urting yourself like this, Andy won’t exactly be thrilled.”

A hissed intake of breath. One of Louise’s flatmates was -  _ is- will be?  _ \- a medical student; she understood  _ perfectly _ the wrath of a doctor crossed one too many times. And considering the pair of women clearly had different opinions on what the word “doctor” meant …  _ yikes _ .

“Is that why George is off hiding?” she frowned, thinking back. “Where  _ is  _ he, anyway?”

“He’s  _ late _ ,” she sighed, exasperated. “ _ Again _ .” 

“When was he supposed to get here?” 

“An hour ago? Can’t tell without lookin’ at the clock. It’s that  _ sodding  _ gang again, I swear. 

Louise drew her eyes away from the young boy on the corner trying to flog papers (and picking a pocket or two while he was at it) to stare aghast at her “.... _ gang _ ?”

Her grip on the windowsill grew tighter; the pinch of shavings being carved upwards by cracked nails and drawing blood was becoming difficult to ignore. 

“Oh stop it,” Charlotte reached forward and snatched Louise’s hands away. “You’ll only cause yourself more damage than you already have. The tutting as she inspected them, brushing injured areas that caused the younger woman to wince, “Serves you right.”

Thus disappeared that final piece of hope she’d managed to regain. The crushing possibilities of how she could just be  _ hurt  _ with really and genuinely nobody to find her this time was just all-encompassing.

Everything was  _ exhausting  _ to think about. 

Weaving through all of this was a recurring wave of sickly green and mustard yellow coats. The same splattering of cheap coloured fabrics she had recognised here and there from the other night. 

_ Gang Colours _ , she realised and immediately wanted to say something or even try the dash for the door she’d been offhandedly planning, but she yet watched on. If Charlotte was telling her to watch then there was likely a good reason for it. 

They did not look like your typical gangsters, these yellow and green anonymous ants. No brute force threats for protection money was subjected to those around them. Instead, there was kindness. 

Handing pennies to rough sleepers in alleyways and cheerful assistance, all these things she had been told were  _ not  _ gang-like actions. The media had hyped up their cruelty and their desensitised nature for their own benefit, but even Al Capone did good deeds for his community. 

_ You did also kill a man last night _ .  _ Who are you to judge? _

How many rings below the ladder was she from George now? Because she was surely part of the pecking order - and most of the time leaving meant death. Staying also means death. 

Louise bit her bottom lip. “Well, I’m not exactly in a position to be judge and jury, am I?”

Pounding steps raced up the creaky, wood-worm damaged staircase outside had Louise’s shoulders snapping back from their hunched, relaxed position. Head snapping to the front door, the woman found her injured shoulder backing against the wall, defending and 

And George came bounding in through the entrance, hair askew and breathing heavily.

Charlotte turned around to the door, rising to her full height (still shorter than George, but at that moment it didn’t matter).

“And about  _ bloody _ time!” 

“Sorry, Lottie!” he kissed her cheek. The rapport between the duo screamed of familiarity, the gentle teasing all but screaming of their long history. Having the pair stand beside one another, Louise could see how  _ different  _ they were from each other. Where Charlotte’s face was rounded and bright with mirth, George’s muscle greyed with exhaustion; shoulders hunched forward with an invisible weight and inevitably a lack of sleep. 

Personality-wise, there was nothing different than the ruckus they had caused hours before.

_ Siblings _ , she mused. 

He glanced over to where she stood watching, waiting for his reaction. “Nice to see you back in the land of the livin’.”

“Hello to you, too.” Not exactly the response she was expecting, but at least it was civil. “And it’s nice to see you without a stick up your arse.”

“No need to sound surprised,” he said. “And you still look like shit.”

“How do you know? Maybe I  _ like _ being covered in blood and gore?” 

He glanced over, a bright wink in his eye and guffawed. “ _ Oh _ , you are going to fit in just perfectly.” 

He clasped her around her right shoulder, nudging her away from the wall. It was meant in good faith, but it led to him being swatted by both women when he had chosen the injured side. 

A hurried apology, glares in response, and Charlotte turned to make sure he hadn’t jostled her injury too much.

“You alright?” she whispered over, pulling back the collar to see if the cauterisation had bled through (it hadn’t). 

“Uh, yeah,” 

With a nod, she seemed satisfied enough before rounding on her brother. “ _ What the fuck were you thinking and don’t you tell me you forgot _ .”

She reached into the trouser pocket and retrieved a tattered and damp familiar flat cap, and fed the fabric between her fingers. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, no longer entirely sure what the port of call was now. With the power dynamic switched, and George in the lead, Louise felt as if on the back foot. 

Right now, she needed  _ out _ . And it was likely that asking would take a specific kind of wordplay for more than she was up to right then, to get moving outside. But she also wanted this sorted just so she could come back and  _ sleep _ . 

Flexing her hand around the stitches in the fabric, a breath, she thought  _ fuck it _ ,  _ let’s just bit the bullet _ . 

“ _ Um… _ ” she mumbled, chewing the inside of her cheek whilst she thought how to approach this. “Percival said that you  _ might  _ know who I’m supposed to see?” 

A flicker of  _ something  _ passed by his sight, recognition turning to surprise, to something almost like intrigue, and he nodded with his sly grin. 

“Not waitin’ ‘round are we? Alright Sleepin’ Beauty,” he said, earning Louise’s prickly glare. ““Aight, aight. We’ll get goin’. Lottie, don’t wait up!”

* * *

Whitechapel was infamous in Victorian literature; Jack the Ripper ( _ in twenty years time _ , Louise thought morbidly). The ruined buildings less than a mile from Parliament and the wealth of its nobles and politicians in both Lords and Commons, that growing divide hidden but displayed. 

Streets and their inhabitants made infamous by the writings of people like Dickens, cementing the plight of its poorest to  _ not  _ be forgotten about. 

Charlotte’s apartment had a more splendid view outside the window, but even turning a corner down the road it was as if stepping into a different city. 

How was all of this so  _ normal _ ? Children laughed on the roads. Corner sellers of all kinds of objects from papers to flowers to the odd trinkets very  _ clearly  _ stolen from somewhere. Even construction work during the middle of the roads, digging up the earth to tunnel and cover the underground tracks after the fact and horse-drawn buses, it all meshed together to just present:  _ London _ .

Part of her had been expecting something far worse awaiting her; that every hidden corner would be an ambush, that George wasn’t as benevolent as he first appeared. She’d seen just how easy it was to fall into the wrong hands as merchandise, it was perhaps even easier to be taken back there now she had  _ contacts _ . 

She was following the only lead she had. It would have to be seen to the end. 

Walking down the wintery morning streets, Louise could not have been more alien and out of place if she’d tried. Rubbing shoulders with immaculately dressed women in flourishing dresses and police in uniforms pressed and decorated within an inch of their life, she instead drowned beneath the stolen cap and jacket, borrowed shirt, feeling the large target placed upon her back. 

Equally as captivated with seeing  _ history  _ unfold before her and internal turmoil, she kept her eyes downcast. Quiet and cold, the woman merely followed George as he barged through the swarm. 

It was clear to Louise that she had defined George’s personality down to a  _ T  _ from that brief initial meeting. Headstrong, loyal, self-confident, all shown and demonstrated in the small hours. And cemented now, right before her. He walked as if he  _ owned  _ the very ground beneath their feet as they strolled on, brushing people aside so they could pass quicker. Add  _ impatient  _ to that list of attributes. 

Blowing on her hands every so often to just give them something to do, eventually, she gave in; she rolled the sleeves up to her elbow and stuck her hands in the torn pockets. 

“Well, you’re certainly quiet this morning,” George commented. They stood beneath a railway bridge near the end of their trip, the green-faced student needing a minute to recatch her breath. 

She huffed as if she had been holding her breath. “It’s a lot to take in, all at once.”

“You never been to London before?”

“I study here; it’s just … I don’t normally see  _ this  _ side of her,” a melancholy sigh, a phantom waft of musty pages and old manuscripts. “The museums and libraries were more sort of my favoured terrain.”

“I’m not much of a reader, but I can tell you somethin’,” he chuckled. “You might as well call me a believer now.” 

“And me a sceptic.” 

Passing the corner outside a pub, he barged into someone else, sending their papers scattering across the floor. 

“You alright?” he asked after a while passed without conversation. 

_ No, of course not! _ she thought, but honesty was not exactly what the British were known for. At George’s raised eyebrow cast back over his shoulder, she answered. “I didn’t even know Eddie’s last name.”

“Harris,” he grunted, barely managing to stop slipping on ice. “It’s why I was late. Went to see ‘is sister an’ all that.”

“What’ll happen to them?”

He sighed. “I went to offer them  _ something _ , ‘elp and maybe some money. But Eddie’s lot are a stubborn bunch, and they were certain they wanted nothin’ more. They’ll end up in the workhouse or worse by spring, what with Kaylock raisin’ rents.”

“Would me talking to them help?”

“Probably not. Might make it worse.”

That gut punch again, seeing Eddie’s lifeless body  _ again _ . Louise mouthed a hurt “ _ oh _ ” and dropped the topic. George’s response felt so  _ heartless _ . The way he was brushing it aside so easily. But then some voice in her head spoke up that it wasn’t heartlessness, that it was resignation. A tale he’s heard before, and grown familiar with its downer ending. 

She remained silent for a while longer, slowing a bit as she kicked her heels stalling. George still maintained his job as crowd breaker for a few more minutes before he approached talking again. 

“Kinda surprised that you’re still walkin’ and talkin’, now that you know what we do.” 

A dog barked down a side alley as they turned off the main road. The duo stayed left, weaving past pubs and factories and the odd brothel or two. It was far seedier than where she would normally find herself, and that second nature of  _ protect yourself _ kicked in, with a glance over her shoulder with every pause, every turned corner. 

Buildings tower over them, even those only one floor above ground; falling tiles, rates skittering in the damp and dark, and group huddling around makeshift firepits outside in courtyards of houses built practically on top of each other. 

An arm shot out, stopping her from crossing. A growler screeched past disregarding any passers-by. George had barely stopped himself from being flattened into the cobbles as his foot skid on clumps of melting snow and  _ something I am not going to think about right now _ . Louise moved out of the range of grip, in case he decided to grasp her arm again and exacerbate the injury. And by means, cause himself one. 

At the cracking curbs, George growling back at its  _ idiotic  _ driver, before crossing in a bit more safety.  _ Short-tempered  _ was also being added to that mental list. His ankle rolled from the pavement and he crossed,  _ safely  _ this time. Meandering through cabs, Louise tentatively made her way along. She made it, although having to do that strange half-jog that for some reason only the Brits do in public. 

The building he finally stopped their journey at was unassuming. A single floor business front with the glass window display most along their journey had fitted. As with most things in this part of London, it was filthy - years of coal smoke from factories had darkened the exterior and more so as it became clear nobody really bothered to clear it away (likely with no clean water to spare). 

She stared at the smog-dulled attire of the sign, which read: 

_ Mr Green’s Curio Shop _

The paint was peeling from the front decals, and it was clear that business was not particularly rife at that moment in time. The buildings either side were up for sale, again with signs that must have been long-standing with no successful offers. 

George didn’t bother to knock the front door nor the glass, instead just sauntering up to the unlocked entrance and strolling right in. 

* * *

As they entered, a bell chimed above their heads and Louise shoved the cap away; she left it hanging on the coat rack just on their right that was equally as sparse. Which meant that either someone was  _ out _ and this was just an ambush, or they were in and it was a set up to send her  _ back _ . 

She let George lead the way inside, calling out greetings as she remained silent. A muffled reply came from somewhere in the backrooms, and they entered into the main body of the building. Louise shut the door behind her, but like how they found it, she left it unlocked. 

Clearly the building was originally intended as private accommodation then refitted with the shop front at a later date, with the same lack of proper insulation as the rest of it. Snowmelt likewise puddled and dripped down onto the wood.

Floorboards beyond the carpeted opening creaked underfoot, and particularly the heels on Louise’s boots resonated around in the snapshot of time. 

A plain saucer lay cup-less upon the splintering desk, and a small incense stick was burning away on the desk, thin wisps of smoke curling past dust particles in the light. A book with a broken spine lay opened nearby, a loose page fluttering gently in the draft. 

The place had not seen regular customers for some time, and from those, they were evidently not that wealthy. Money was not the main income of this centre. It was not helping her nagging thoughts that this place might  _ just  _ be a front for something far more sinister.

While Louise found herself inspecting some of the trinkets on the shelves, George tried to find their bodiless voice. 

“Henry?” George called again. 

More steps, although these were lighter on the flooring than the duo’s; Louise turned away from a particularly fetching glass ornament of a bird towards the doorway to the backroom, which now had someone passing through.

Maybe six foot tall or a few inches either way, slippered feet rather than covered with hardwearing boots, the man who walked out was nothing like the building’s state had prepared her for. The gold embellishments around the white fabrics contrasted heavily from the apartments; the white was almost pristine and not at all like the working class, East End vibes and dust-littered trinkets. 

His demeanour was just full of exuberant kindness. A grin and lack of judgement which flowed literally everywhere else in the city. Definitely not like grumpy, tired George beside her. A separate kind of confidence.  _ Approachable _ . In the way that Alison used to be like.

Charismatic, encouraging. 

Louise could tell she was frowning; no idea why, but she was. It was making her feel bad, and she tried to force herself into a relaxed state. Taking her hands out of her pockets a smile was attempted. 

A hand extended in greeting. A name given. Hands were shaken. 

That was the meeting of two major players in this hidden game.  _ A handshake _ . 

It wasn’t in an unkind manner, but his eye did flick to the scarring visible on her hand and wrist but for a moment. Just a cautionary glance that never even missed a beat or appeared out of place. 

Louise crossed her arms, hugging her torso to sell that she was cold. They seemed to buy it. The movement also hid the clutching left hand pressing on wounded muscle to counterbalance the pain. 

“The letter was a bit hurried, and the rain smeared some of the ink, George,” he said. “I only understood so much.”

“They weren’t exactly going to wait an’ give me a chance to write it properly!”

The brow furrowed, and Henry Green glanced between the two, praying for an explanation. More to Louise who just shrugged. In all honesty, he perhaps knew more about the situation than her. 

“It’s a long story,” she cringed. “And I’m not sure how much I know about it all, either.”

“Perhaps tea?” he offered, indicating to the back room from which he had entered. Judging by the tiles on the walls rather than the plain planks and bare bricks everywhere else. 

“Not a bad idea,” she agreed, partially aware just how much the ache had not resided much, and a seated discussion of the past few days might be best. 

“I’ll take a beer or two if you got any,” George yawned. “‘M not fussy about which one yer give.”

As if answering the call, fragile clinking tinkled through from the back. A shadow moved on the walls, as an unseen party moved around, readying their beverages.

“Is someone else here?” she asked. To which she received a look of confusion and bewilderment.

Henry turned to the man at her left. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Didn’t think she’d come if she knew.”

The grasp around her upper arms loosened “If I knew  _ what _ ?”

Boots, heeled and well-made from the sound of it, echoed from the back rooms. The individual approached. There was a dread surrounding Louise before they even turned the corner; her hackles were raised, and the fight or flight instinct was dizzying. 

_ Be ready _ .

The gait was half-familiar, although she could not think of someone who would have a limp…

_ Oh _ .  _ oh no _ . 

That wave of nauseatic panic returned. Walls once again felt like bars. She shot the dirtiest glare over to George because  _ what else could she do _ ? Running was not an option if she could barely walk. 

In all but a few seconds, the figure had risen from the back table, and met them where they stood. Neither of the other two looked even remotely concerned with his presence.

In a less bloodstained suit and now detailing the ensemble with an elaborate cane, hobbled in one wartorn Percival Starrick.

“What the fuck are you doing  _ here _ ?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow .... what a cliff hanger, huh. This is not the last we have seen of Lord Percival Starrick - he'll be coming back again :D 
> 
> I'll be honest, I had most of this chapter planned and semi-written before I finished Chapter Four; I knew where I wanted it to go, it was just the getting there which caused me grief 😂 But it's finished a lot quicker than my usual two month wait, so partial success? 
> 
> It really does say something about the length of these chapters when this got to roughly 3,500 words, nearly finished and I just went "... it's too short". There used to be a day when that length of chapter was impossible for me - so yay for personal character growth!
> 
> The main inspiration for Louise's outfit here was one of Evie's concept art pieces - where she wears an ensemble that mirrors the SImply Jacob outfit a little - and I think it's a perfect starting outfit for her. I'll get into it more in later chapters, but I'm already seeing bits of both twins in her personality, as well as that encompassing love and selflessness which is 100% _her_. There's also that temper, which we will _also_ be seeing some more of. 
> 
> Also that half-jog that I mention the Brits do? Yeah, it's a thing we do, and once you realise that you're doing it, you can't _not_ notice that you are doing it. 
> 
> (I'm also *terrible* at remembering to respond to comments but I really do appreciate every single one of them!)


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From the front it was similar in shape of the blades of a staple remover, far less recognisable than the cross, hanging from the chain by the very tip. While the crosses were more orate, this was plain. Evidently, it was not intended as a statement piece but rather a quiet declaration of defiance._
> 
> _It was the same sigil Louise remembered emblazoned on Alessandra’s belt, hanging from banners from even older times. The same design which resided on multiple clothing items upon the younger shop owner beside him, as well as worked into the logo hanging outside._
> 
> _It was enough to just get her to pause the hysterics for a moment, and listen._

If she didn’t get some fresh air  _ now  _ there was a real chance she might throw up from the stress.  _ How could he be here? How could I have  _ trusted  _ them _ ?!

An empty hand closed over the memory of a sword that she was  _ sure  _ she had a moment ago. Her hands balled into fists, mouth turned dry, and if it weren't for George in the way of the door she would have already left. “You have some  _ fucking nerve  _ turning up now _ - _ ”

Unperturbed, Percival addressed her. “I came because I was  _ invited _ ,” he explained, emphasising that final word. “And you still haven’t learned to control your emotions.” 

“I take pride in it;  _ fuck you  _ if you think it’s still a flaw.” she looked over to George and Henry for help, feeling that sadly familiar sensation of being completely  _ trapped _ . “ _ Why  _ is he here?”

“Percival is a double agent-”

“For who?” she snapped. “For us or for  _ them _ ?”

“You were to be told  _ in time _ -”

A bitter laugh erupted from where she couldn’t keep it hidden. “Oh really? I escape and all of a sudden you’re one of the good guys? Because given what I overheard in that meeting  _ you  _ made me eavesdrop on-”

“I know exactly what they were discussing, and I am immensely sorry you were forced to overhear that.  _ Truly I am _ ,” he placed the emphasis upon seeing her clear disbelief. “I wanted no part of it at all. I hold on interest in that,  _ believe me _ .”

“You are  _ not  _ sending me back there!”

Her jaw was burning again, the balled-fists shaking and bloodied nails digging into skin to hide the jitters. 

The manner in which he recoiled from the mere thought, like a sour piece of lemon, was enough to satisfy the discussion for now. Something about it made her refuse to say the words  _ I believe you  _ for which she would refrain for a more enlightening time.

Henry. Whom she had known for all of five minutes and was now suddenly standing as her grandest defender. The mediator in all conflict. Both had evidently been through this before; the tail edge of a long-standing dance on the edge of a knife. 

He looked over, frowning; those small muscle twitches diffused the tension.  _ A charmer _ . 

“Show them,” he said. “We had at least  _ hoped  _ for introductions before we got to business this morning, but it appears focusing on the truth is paramount now.”

“I know this is unlikely to get you to trust me, but at least know that I am  _ not  _ on their side at heart.” 

Percival reached beneath the starched collars and retrieved a chain. Simple and as if made of base materials, it was almost alien for a man who could buy gold, diamonds and a house in Kensington without missing a single penny. Part of her was expecting to see that familiar Templaric cross dangling from the end. But it was instead she was greeted by something she had never seen before. 

From the front it was similar in shape of the blades of a staple remover, far less recognisable than the cross, hanging from the chain by the very tip. While the crosses were more orate, this was plain. Evidently, it was not intended as a statement piece but rather a quiet declaration of defiance. 

It was the same sigil Louise remembered emblazoned on Alessandra’s belt, hanging from banners from even older times. The same design which resided on multiple clothing items upon the younger shop owner beside him, as well as worked into the logo hanging outside. 

It was enough to just get her to  _ pause  _ the hysterics for a moment, and listen.

A deep sigh, consumed by both frustration and relief. “ _ Alright _ . Explain  _ everything _ , but it is the only thing stopping me from walking out right now.”

All eyes in the room moved to her. The body shaking from a mix of cold or fear or a cacophony of other confusing emotions, extruded the genuine nature of her reality. They took it seriously, and with full respect. 

“I was planning on taking you aside once you had finished your trials, and telling you everything,” Percival said. “Of course, that plan was derailed the moment you punched Maxwell Roth in the face.”

The two other men snapped her head in her direction. She did not flinch her stare from the source of the trouble. They were astounded by her refuge in audacity. George snorted in mirth. 

“What? He’s an  _ asshole _ .”

Percival. “And perhaps the most dangerous mistake you’ve made. He is not a man you want to make an enemy of.” 

“I don’t care.”

“You  _ will _ ,” he warned. 

George. “You’re a fuckin’  _ idiot _ .”

_ Inhale. Exhale.  _

The cold, the exertion, and standing mere feet away from the orchestrator of her pain were all contributing. But they would not get that satisfaction of seeing her cry. Her chin raised a little more, the grounding grasp around her arms tightening. 

“And you honestly thought that there was going to be a  _ moment  _ where I would do anything knowing my actions were hurting people?” she hissed between clenched teeth. 

George, growing as frustrated as the rest, continued explaining with  _ remarkable  _ restraint. “Which is  _ why _ you would have been the double agent, replacing suspicion from Percival.”

“Are you fucking-“ she paused, pinching the bridge of her nose. Anger now giving way to that defeatist grief she so  _ wished  _ would just stay quiet until she could deal with it in private. 

“I  _ trusted you _ . And you didn’t even have the  _ decency  _ to be honest with me?! “Not  _ once  _ did I question how you knew what I was talking about,” she gasped, tears brimming in her eyes. “Not  _ once _ . The only time I’ve decided to shut up and it’s the time which gets me killed.  _ Wonderful _ .”

“Honesty was irrelevant in that scenario. It would have only put you in danger.” 

Even Henry seemed somewhat uncomfortable with that statement.

“Oh and that suddenly invalidates my choice, does it?”

She stepped forward, shoulders set and entirely prepared to resume their fight in a physical aspect. Barely a foot forward and George was there to make her stop. 

If Louise did not  _ leave _ , then she might as well attempt to make her own chance of an exit.

George’s hold on her left upper arm was easy enough to break free from, and she moved away. But no steps further forward. Grounded, for the time being. 

“ _ Safety  _ was more important there. You cannot help if you’re a corpse floating in the Thames.”

“From the manner in which you conducted yourself upon our first encounter, and the way in which you hold yourself, it is perhaps thankful you already had  _ some  _ defensive training before we had met.”

“I doubt archery is going to help us here.”

“Perhaps not something so archaic as that,” he admitted. “But the regular practice is indeed something we can reiterate here.”

“Well you weren’t exactly training me to  _ think _ , were you?” 

“Inaction, like the kind on the day we met, will only get you killed. You need to learn how to  _ avoid  _ overthinking the scenarios and be more efficient.” 

“And how am I meant to do all of this without overthinking it? Seems a little contradictory to me.”

“At first it may cause some getting used to,” he offered. “But if you live long enough, then it will become second nature. Just as coherent as breathing.” 

She laughed, astounded. “ _ If I live long enough?!  _ You slimy little-”

“Do you still have the rapier?”

_ Ah dammit _ . A weak chuckle and a sheepish expression silenced her. 

George facepalmed.

Percival tittered, disappointed. “That was an  _ antique  _ from the 1790s. Practically a relic.” 

“Preaching to the crowd there,” she muttered. Louise kicked her heel at a splintering piece of floorboard. 

Henry moved back in. “Frederick found it; Scotland Yard are keeping it safe for now.”

“You mean he’s not playing ball?” George huffed, to which Percival agreed reluctantly.

“Then we won’t be getting it returned for some time.”

George hummed. “ _ Unless _ -”

“ _ No _ . The last thing we need is to make an enemy of him so early.” 

“So says the man who tried to turn me into the bloody Winter Soldier.  _ Nuh uh _ .”

“This is getting us  _ nowhere _ .”

“I told you that it was  _ reckless _ .” Henry bit back. 

Louise spoke under her breath. “Well, that’s  _ one  _ way to describe it.” 

George swore, condensing his part in this spat. Walking past the duo facing them, the gang leader and noble man without the nobility talked and  _ talked _ . They would not stop talking. And more importantly, to let her get a word in edgeways. It was  _ her  _ life they were debating, she needed to be the one to make the final decision. 

“What I  _ need  _ is a minute to think,” she snapped, finally getting the word in. “This is a  _ lot  _ and frankly why the  _ fuck  _ did not tell me before?”

“We thought it might make you overreact-”

“And  _ you  _ didn’t seem to think that I needed to know.” she sniffed. “So, you are not  _ going _ to know my decision. I’m off to make it on my  _ own _ where I can think. I’ll be back if I’ve made up my mind.”

She made sure to  _ SLAM  _ the door behind her as she stepped outside. 

* * *

Breaths huffed and puffed before her slowly numbing face but the internal squirming did not abside. 

She must have stepped in snowmelt puddles along her route, as when she paused, darting over to an abandoned bench in the shade there was a somewhat concerning sensation in her feet. Freezing, damp, and in ill-fitting shoes, her ankle rubbed and burned, among other things. 

At some point her footing had finally slipped on wet grass; luckily not falling over completely and being able to retain  _ some  _ dignity, Louise framed it as if she were picking some of the untrampled flowers beneath a tree. A small wheezing inhale at the knock to her shoulder, and then another one at the thought of pulling apart the sutures. 

A fistful of snowdrops made its way into her possession, and Louise twirled one around her thumb and forefinger. Hunched forward with elbows on her knees, she considered her options. Round and round in circles her thoughts fought. 

Her leg was bouncing as she thought on, still focusing on that one pure white flower in her hands.  _ They fell in a battle, whatever that means now _ , she thought.  _ I should find a poppy or two _ . 

Breathing  _ hurt _ . Cold air drifting from the Thames, on top of everything else made it feel almost difficult to inhale. 

Phantom hands upon her shoulders;  _ what did Ezra say worked for panic attacks? Senses. Okay, so just focus on those. _

_ What can you hear?  _ Carriages and horses, laughter, shouting and vendors selling their wares. It wasn’t that different from what she woke up that morning, just  _ louder _ and more affronting. She must have passed a pub because there was a party happening somewhere nearby - the music and singing patrons faded between the rest of the noise. Louise’s heavy breathing and sniffles between wheezes. 

_ Taste? Smell _ ?  _ Oh god what  _ is  _ that? Actually you know what - I don’t want to know _ . 

_ Touch? _ The main element was in her hand where bloodied fingertips still itched; dried blood, dirt and fauna beneath her nails. One hand of which were now laced among dirty hair. Literal cold feet and bare skin which felt raw against the breeze floating off the Thames.

A sensation of the weathered wood of the bench sinking beneath the weight of another person on the other end. The sound of said person clearing their throat to get her attention; while gentle it was  _ grating _ . What is it about people now wanting to just leave her alone today?!

“I don’t know what Percival said, but surely it couldn’t be  _ that  _ shocking.”

She groaned, looking down at the street beneath her borrowed shoes. “Let me guess. You’re supposed to be Frederick.”

“That’s right: Sergeant Abberline, at your service.”

Her head shot out of her hands, and she finally turned to look at the individual. What she  _ saw  _ was not remotely the image of the infamous Inspector which she had been brought up knowing purely by the closeness of the British public. This … was not that image of a refined,  _ respectable  _ man of the law. 

“ _ Right _ . Are you sure? Because right now you’re dressed like a bearded old lady…”

“A disguise has served me  _ perfectly  _ well for far longer than a badge or status,” he bristled. “Even if the bobbies down at the station disagree, I still abide by the practise and if you could respect that decision 

She quirked a smile. “You should get a bonnet to go with it.”

“This city is  _ enthralled  _ by obvious details which nobody notices,” he said. “Nobody’s noticed us for hours, so I would say it’s  _ working _ .” 

She couldn’t dispute that. The bench they were both on was off to the side of roads, but not out of sight. Anyone could walk up or interrupt, and nobody had. 

“Louise.” Turning in her seat, the arm which had been anchored to aid escape, was now moving her to face him. She held out her left hand at her introduction. 

He responded in kind and shook her hand. “I know.”

She paused, sitting straighter and other hand steadying in case another dash for freedom was required. Abberline had a positive-leaning history in cultural memory, but he was still  _ Police _ . 21st Century depictions would not be so easily forgotten. All she knew, this could be a set up for Percival and  _ Them _ , and the moment that he looked the other way it would be over.

Louise tried to approach it gently, trying to not make the shifting of her bodyweight the centre of the conversation. “ _....How? _ ” 

“Mr Green let me know the evening you set a warehouse on fire.”

“ _ Of course _ you know Henry. Who doesn’t that guy know in this city?” she muttered. “And for the record that fire was me stopping human trafficking so -  _ uh  _ \- you’re welcome.”

“I’ve known Henry for a number of years, the elder Starrick brother far longer,” he sighed, one eye ever on the crowds. “While their methods might not  _ quite  _ what I had in mind, I must at least concede to the fact that he  _ is  _ making progress.”

“But not fast enough for what you want.”

A nod. “And not as securely as people  _ need _ .”

Both of the unlikely duo sat there for a time, acknowledging and ignoring the overall scene all at once. Nobody bothered them, even day-drinkers from the nearby pub on the corner left them alone, and beyond the odd word neither said a thing until Charlotte 

Her face was flushed with the cold, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. 

“George said you’d gone walkabout,” Charlotte said. “What did you do, sprint across half of sodding Westminster?”

“It’s not like I planned to walk this  _ far,  _ Charlotte!”

“I know,” she soothed “He also mentioned the gist of what happened - I don’t blame you.”

The woman then looked over Louise’s shoulder to the nearby disguised being. “Fred.”

“Lottie.” 

“Wait a minute-” Louise turned to the disguised man beside her. “Are you …  _ babysitting me _ ?”

“That’s not  _ precisely  _ the word I would use,  _ but _ ...” the man shrugged, a non-commital grunt closing his argument where words failed. 

Charlotte’s blonde wisps caught in the breeze. Louise focused on those so she could at least pretend she was looking the closest thing she had to an ally, in the eye. 

“What did I say to you this morning before you’d left?” she tutted. 

Louise shrugged, biting the inside of her cheek. 

“ _Don’t_ _injure yourself again_. What did you do?” she turned her attention to her shoulder. Which Louise had not even realised that she had been holding differently. She just didn’t want to crush the flowers. Flipping the lapel back to inspect her shirt, Charlotte sighed. “Well. At least it’s not bled through.”

The collar was replaced, and Big Ben chimed somewhere beyond them. 

“C’mon. I’ll walk you back to Green’s,” she said, voice light and indicating more of a suggestion than an order. Even talking to her was kinder, freer. Tensions eased, Louise found herself getting to her feet. 

Louise turned to Their disguised compatriot was readjusting their haphazard layers of skirting over his uniform. “It was wonderful to meet you, Frederick. Maybe next time we meet it’ll be a bit nicer than …  _ well _ .” 

Standing himself, he cleared his throat, and held out a hand. “We don’t always get to choose our first meetings,” he assured. “But Henry’s a good man: trust him.”

The duo watched him walk away down the alley, before Charlotte ushered Louise in the other direction. Passing down the main roads and embankments for a time, they simply … wandered. Charlotte never encroached when she didn’t need to, close to her charge but not anything that might send the birds flying all over again. 

Turning a corner, Louise cast a look over her shoulder, and did she imagine a blood red coat diving for cover as she did so?

“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Louise squeezed her arm.

“Apparently I  _ did _ .” 

“ _ Why?  _ You’ve known me all of two days; why worry yourself over someone you barely know?”

Charlotte laughed to herself, a wry sideways glance. “You really  _ weren’t  _ listening this morning.”

“It’s been a lot, okay?”

“Oh,  _ sweetheart _ . You’ve not seen anythin’ yet.” The light gesture against her shoulder drew out heat but proved grounding. “Is it  _ that  _ difficult for you to trust people?”

“ _ Apparently _ . And I clearly have a poor judgement of character to top it all off.”

“Sometimes you have to shut up and put up. Not everyone in this city is a  _ complete  _ asshole.”

Louise snorted, the cold air stinging her nostrils. “Let me know when you find one.”

“Henry.” 

“I love how you never mentioned your brother.”

Charlotte grinned. “He’s my brother, of  _ course  _ I think he’s an ass.”

Meandering through crowds, both women moved slower than many and were consumed by the tides. They found themselves taking shortcuts where possible, snow-covered deposits now feeling icier than earlier in the day, and each decided to rest. They found a place to sit in a park not too far away, 

“... what would you do?” Louise asked, as they both watched birds landing on the ice. “If you had to make this decision, would you do it?”

“I don’t have to imagine; I’ve made that decision … too many times. Guess that’s the downside of being  _ us _ .”

“It’s not our fault. People don’t always care,” she sighed, twirling the flower between her fingers again. “

“More people to be told that, and I think you need to be the one to tell ‘em - and tell ‘em  _ good _ . You have a temper and a passion for this, and I don’t think you’d be here if you didn’t want to help them.”

Charlotte patted Louise’s leg, a kind smile on her face. 

“That’s what I think you should do, and I think you know that too.”

_ Help them _ . 

* * *

_ This is insane. Comp _ _ letely batshit crazy! _ She muttered under her breath as Whitechapel based her in a blur. Over and over again this decision could have been called off - Louise could have just taken a right turn across the Thames, fade into obscurity or even go out in a brief moment of glory. 

But none of those options felt in-character for her. And if they  _ were _ , could she live with herself if she decided to? It was easier to help than ever before, and without the 

Slowly, she followed the sloping topography of the Thames as it flowed Eastward. In the hazardous bolt from the shopfront, she had essentially stormed through most of Central London, ending up nearer to Hammersmith than to her now-destination. Over an hour’s leisurely stroll undertaken without realising it. 

If she had made it all that way without being disturbed or interrupted …  _ Christ _ she must look a complete wreck. 

When the City of London’s gleaming towering haven was more behind her than ahead, she merged left back into the sea of people. Perhaps not a moment too soon as the Tower of London fast approached, the recognisable Tower Bridge missing from the skyline.

There was a memory of another person in another time crossing that bridge, camera phone in hand as she soaked in an afternoon September breeze, rays of sunlight reflecting from The Shard nearby and the buzz of a double-decker tour bus of students during their first week. 

But now just one more road to cross. 

Standing opposite, waiting for the break in the seemingly end-to-end lines of traffic, Louise noticed something she had missed last time. Several buildings along the street had cloth hanging in view of first or second-floor windows, a smattering of crisp red among plain brickworks. Some were disguised as shawls drying or blinds, but they were deliberately there almost. 

Except, Henry’s was not red. Tucked away on the first floor above the shop, wedged between what was like even more nicknacks upstairs, was a swatch of that  _ horrendous  _ shade of green. 

Her heart was ready to move forward. It wouldn’t take that much. Her feet, however. Were still not budging. 

Wheezing breaths beneath her hands sent a cloud to mist the air. Light was dimming and if she didn’t move now she would be unlikely to move at all. 

Pleading from several homeless children down to road, begging anyone who walked past for food or change grew louder. People were ignoring them. Whether out of malice or simply being desensitised to the action, or most likely the rest of the East End is as poor as those desperate souls, barely able to keep their own heads above water as it is. 

_ “Please, Miss! ‘Help us out.” _

“ _ Spare ha’penny for me dinner, gov!” _

“ _ We’ve not ‘ad food all week, please _ .”

The disgust was back. Not at those children, but the fact they were  _ there _ . Sure, London has never had the best reputation, even in the 21st Century, but people have always tried to help out where they could. 

Louise watched from against the wall as  _ nobody  _ stopped. Nobody even batted an eye in their direction. Which of course made them perfect pick-pocketing targets. As the duo distracted one out of place embellished couple, whilst a third - a girl around ten years old with braided pigtails and a green patched dress - crept up and stole from right under their nose. 

She caught Louise watching, the elder woman morbidly bemused at their antics. A cheeky wave and then she was gone, ready to pull the scam all over again. 

_ The audacity _ . Louise chuckled to herself.  _ Such a Rogue move. _

Her left hand checked pockets, panicking as fingers slipped through a torn hole in one side. Picking at the threads for a moment and running through a mental checklist before realising that she had nothing for them to take. 

There was, on the flip side, something for her to give instead.

Crossing the road, sludge darker and more melted than the morning, refreezing into ice as the evening closed in, Louise only slipped right at the very end of the cobbles where the sludge of a day full of work collected and piled aside. 

_ Oh well, at least the door is still unlocked _ . The bell above the door chimed again, the hubbub of conversation still hissing through from the back rooms, a freshly changed incense stick burning away. 

To her chagrin, they were all still there. George, less inclined to movement and clearly rising from a nap. They had been waiting for her. From their reactions - George and Percival of surprise, and Henry of confirmed quiet confidence- not everyone had been anticipating her return. Or at least not so quickly. 

Louise felt like she was in trouble, the way they were staring at her.  _ But fuck it _ , she thought.  _ I have nothing to lose anymore _ . 

She focused on the scene before her. Three men, all from varying sides of society, all conspiring in this damp-riddled kitchen with chipped cups and mismatched plates, and peeling wallpaper. Her, freezing and injured, determined of the path ahead. 

She exhaled, and then made the first move before anyone could speak. 

“I’m in.” 

More variety in their next reactions. Percival, surprise. George, gumption. Henry, sympathy. 

She couldn’t bear to stare at any of them, but she made the conscious effort to not see the eyes of the man who was trying so hard to be kind. Louise made a point of staring at the youngest man in the room, keeping the level expression, and passing her assent. 

“Is that cup of tea still an option?”

* * *

George left somewhat worse for wear, sleep-deprived, and with a promise to introduce her to the rest of the team tomorrow. 

Not that he was happy about it. After Louise’s “tantrum” he had evidently had a conversation with the remaining pair which had been a fight more powerful than he had been waiting for. Louise weighing her own opinion and standing her ground. There would be less like a deal with no other option, and instead acting as if it was a normal job interview. 

“You know what?  _ Fine _ , I relent.” George huffed and sighed. The argument had been going in circles for an hour. “Louise, you seem like a nice girl so I’ll tell you this: you are  _ going  _ to regret making this decision.” 

Louise almost thought he sounded as if he was pleading for her to turn away before it was too late. 

“And you’d rather more people suffered for it? You can’t scare me off that easily, George.”

“We nearly did, earlier.”

“Well,  _ now you’re being honest _ , I can finally make up my mind like a  _ normal  _ person.”

Louise broke a biscuit into pieces. “This time it’s more friendly and less a scathing putdown. Call it a free personality quirk.”

“ _ Right _ ,” George stretched off his drowsiness and rose from his chair. “I’m off for a kip. You-” he looked at Louise “-are coming with me to the Rookery tomorrow mornin’ so we can get you sorted out.”

With that, he scratched at his chin, adjusted his coat and bid them an  _ “evenin’”.  _ The chimes at the door sang out as the wood opened and closed behind him. 

Letting the mask slip for a moment, Percival with a deep groan lifted his bandaged leg and rested it atop the chair George had just vacated. 

“You’re not telling me everything, are you?” she reached across for another biscuit. “There’s something even George doesn’t know.”

“He’s aware that I am working with Henry’s organisation under the table. But not the full details of our arrangement.”

“He knew you were intending to be the spy inside though…”

“ _ Yes… _ ” he drew out the word. “To look into why people were disappearing off the streets.  _ Not  _ the deeper connection with Henry’s unknown organisation.  _ Well _ , unknown to them.”

“This morning you said that you recognised this-” he tapped the symbol again. “Do you happen to know what it is?”

“Maybe? It’s vaguely familiar from something I found out.”

“So what the  _ Templars  _ told you.”

_ “Well if you put it  _ that _ way.”  _ She blinked, realising the tone and hurried to apologise. “Sorry, that was rude. It’s not every day I’m called an idiot for believing what I was told growing up.”

The pair shared a silent conversation, and Percival shook his head indisputably.

Louise shrugged. “My curiosity gets me into trouble sometimes. Looking in the wrong places, reading things hidden from me. It’s how they found me in the first place.” 

At their intrigued look, she elaborated further. 

“Before I knew who they  _ were _ , I had a sort of …  _ apprenticeship _ with the historical research side of things. Looked at the wrong document and the jig was up, really. Documents which sort of looked like a centuries-old conspiracy like the Freemasons, but less of a fiction than a hushed ghost story.”

“Did you get shown anything about the Crusades?” 

“Mhm. Not as much as other time periods but there was a bit. I mainly dealt with Vikings and mythology,” she frowned. “Did both groups go by other names before then?” 

“Precisely. Before the titles we now use, 

“I’ll be honest, those original names were  _ far  _ cooler.”

Documents from Hellenic Greece, a tomb from Ptolemaic Egypt … the discussions around the early Viking influence in England, all before the 11th Century, she mused. The symbols, time and time again. 

A secret society, hidden in plain sight; it was bewildering … but not unheard of. 

“So you’re like the Kingsmen? With the codenames and hidden weapons in canes and stuff like that?”

“The wha-?”

“ _ Nevermind _ ,” she muttered. “They’re sort of a … secret service of gentleman spies? It’s all completely fictional - a  _ story _ , don’t worry about it. They make use of codenames inspired by the Knights of the Round Table.”

She looked over at Percy. “I mean, you’re already sorted there.”

“But the point  _ is _ … our teams adapt to the skills of the individuals. If you don’t want to do something you don’t have to,” Henry poured another round of drinks. 

“Not  _ every  _ one of us fights with a blade, or violence. Books and knowledge can change the world just as effectively.”

“If you’d asked me three months ago I might have included myself in that group,” Louise sighed, picked at the chunks of the biscuit all bland and crumbling. “But we crossed that threshold a long time ago.”

Henry looked to Percival as he sat down with his own drink. “Do you know if she has it?”

“It shouldn’t be that difficult to test, but yes. I believe so.” 

“You mean-?” she tapped her temple. “But I never had it before…”

“We believe that everyone is born with it - or at the very least, the majority of people are. Eventually, you can work around it, but it will take time and some degree of discomfort before it becomes as natural as breathing.”

“As will blending. Being seen and unseen. You managed it today in the crowds, but how will you fare in a more … refined setting?” 

“So we’re  _ Pygmailon _ -ing this then?”

Complete bewilderment was her response. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Louise blinked. “Pygmalion?” she prompted. “My Fair Lady? The play by George Bernard Shaw-” pausing, a realisation dawned on her. “Hold on, let me just-” she reached into her pocket, searching for her mobile phone only to find the dust and accumulated silt from its previous wearers. Where did her phone get to-?

_ Oh right. It’s not been bloody invented yet _ . 

She huffed, settling back down. “It doesn’t matter; it was just a story.”

“Full of stories, aren’t you?”

“And how much do you believe mine?”

“Enough for this to work.”

“You will need a cover story,” they concluded. “Something away from the gangs, deep in the infrastructure of the city.”

“A ‘normal’ citizen job if you will,” Percival finished, tipping his cup in Henry’s direction. “Like this shop. It’s a front, as you have likely guessed by now, and few people step foot in here to really make things difficult.”

She quietened for a moment, a finger tapping against the ceramic. “You’re  _ rich _ , right?”

“I would  _ hope so _ , given our family’s monopoly. Crawford rules half of London life by proxy.”

In the midst of bringing another chunk of biscuit to her mouth, her jaw dropped. 

“Surprised at that?” 

“I was thinking more of an apathetic rich businessman,” she replied. “I suppose I’m not entirely wrong.”

“More of my brother’s remit,” he rolled his eyes. “Crawford was ever the businessman. You’ll get to loathe it all rather quickly I’m afraid. You can see why I want to undo the restraints they are imposing.”

“And not just a brotherly feud?”

“Instigated by the older brother? What weight could I have to justify it?”

A huff, as each adjusted their seating positions; the old creaking chairs slowly growing uncomfortable with the increasing hours. 

“But back to the main issue at hand: having you act as a governess or anything refined is out of the question -  _ oh stop _ . You were also thinking about it.”

“I know - but  _ hey _ !”

Louise thought back to the kids she saw begging outside Henry’s very door, to Charlotte’s comment about being illiterate, Charlie and the others who she ran into the rain with, and the plan was set. 

_ Help them _ .

“But I think I have an idea we could work with.”

* * *

They had said at the Oath-taking that Louise was dead; that all of the woman’s peril and turmoil of a life now lost and her loves and hobbies would be resigned to footnotes and the whispers to history. All records of her name eliminated. Trees uprooted. 

From the ashes of that warehouse rose someone new with her name.

“Don’t give your name: you don’t  _ have one _ .” Percival had said in those horrid damp cells of the warehouse. And in a way, he was right. Each use of the name given to her by her mother - given to her by Genevieve - 

The archaeologist still found that strangeness in her new identity. Her, but equally  _ not  _ her. Mixing past (present) with present (future); itching for novels, for songs written by a mind not yet living. A mindset too liberal and wild … yet full of experience and normality. 

That quiet evening when she had said goodbye to everyone, coming to peace with what they were just confirming to her now, felt like she had already made that first step forwards. This “meeting” was just confirming it to other people so there was a record. 

If she could grab a notebook from somewhere, have a moment to reflect and get her act together, there could be a solid plan unfolding. What do people want to learn and what do they  _ need  _ to if they are to be in the best possible position? Sprinkle in some basic human lessons - how  _ not  _ to be an asshole and  _ care _ . 

She could hear her mum’s voice now.  _ “Don’t do something stupid like join a gang while you’re gone. Stick to getting kicked out of libraries, okay _ ?” 

She hadn’t joined a gang.  _ Yet _ . Louise was just affiliated with one. 

A small difference. 

Percival and Henry explained as the evening drew on, that she wasn’t a  _ full  _ member just yet: it would take months or even years to reach that marker. And as neither man held a seat on the Council … she  _ might  _ not be “officially” training as of yet. 

Stealth training with the stealth training cult …  _ Sure, why not _ ? 

The words they made her speak, their creed, almost made Louise laugh in a morbid way. It was almost like she was being sworn into a deadly scouts troop. Only instead of a necker scarf and badges, she was presented with an instrument of death they were going to teach her to wield. 

From the moment the bracer was placed and fastened against her arm, the woman moved to begin adjusting it to feel comfortable. The sharpened blade was ejected with a flick of her wrist and rehidden as smoothly. It was a seemingly natural instinct for Louise, as if she were born to wield it.

Yet when her attention was drawn to it, her brow furrowed. Confused. There was the vague memory of it being silver and iron, littered with Florentine filigree. Bright and glistening and  _ proudly  _ defiant. 

Dramatically opposed concepts concerned within the singular being, knowledge and ignorance ensnared.

A dull ache went through the ring finger as Percival tightened it, remembering the time it had been first severed and then branded as payment. She stared down at it from time to time, wondering why it was so garishly gold – it would definitely get noticed by a light-fingered thief. 

“It’s heavier than I was expecting,” she said.

“You’ll get used to the weight eventually,” Henry reassured. “Just, be careful. More than one person has made the mistake of leaning on the arm with the blade and …  _ well _ …” he made a vague gesture towards his throat. 

She winced. “There’s no safety latch on this thing?” 

“We’ve never needed to install one. This is not exactly just handed out to children.”

The  _ tantrum  _ she had earlier that week (and the first meeting of time traveller and noble before then) were left unmentioned. 

“ _ Fine _ . But if I lose an eye to this, then I’m blaming it on you.”

Percival bashed the cane against the floor, using the momentum to prise himself from the chair and make his way to them. 

“Henry is going to be your port of call throughout all of this. I’ll send letters and we can devise an additional system to contact one another for meetings in case they are intercepted,” he instructed. Percival was nodding at the sight of the blade against her wrist, like he was reaffirming the course of action. “If everything works out, then quite frankly I should not have to hear about you.”

“Me? Being  _ Quiet _ ?” She snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“For the plan to work, you will have to be. And we’ll need all the luck we can gather.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2021, everyone! 
> 
> So this one was one I knew would be narrative-heavy, but damn did I underestimate how much I would need to add in. Especially combined with Louise's meeting of different people and places and dealing with _the guy who tried to have her turned into the Winter Soldier standing RIGHT THERE_. The question which drove this one is "what is she feeling right now?" which may be chaotic, it may be simple. She's a woman with open emotions, a large contrast to the Twins (and especially Evie); they can change so quickly, so honestly that it's difficult to keep track (and write)
> 
> And really? I found that difficult. She's scared, panicking, in pain and not thinking straight. Louise's emotions are all over the place, and it's why she keeps darting off; she needs somewhere she can sit and really think her options through (a panic attack not included). Angry at Percival and hesitant to trust Frederick ... the only person she can openly give trust to is Charlotte and even _then_ there is a voice saying "no". 
> 
> In my mind she's already having serious issues with PTSD, or at least there's the beginning elements of it, and trust issues are coming into play (which we will revisit later on once _Syndicate_ really gets underway)
> 
> And that little detail with the flag by Henry's? It was something I noticed around Aleck's house during one of his missions; there's a small piece of green fabric hanging from upstairs, similar to the Rooks' bases with the flags.
> 
> There's a little Sherlock Holmes line worked into the speech somewhere - kudos to anyone who can point it out!
> 
> Chapter Seven is going to be full of small-scale time skips, breezing over developments and setting more pieces into place before we get Syndicate up and rolling - but not much longer to go! (I'll try to keep the contact meetings to a minimum because they can get repetitive quickly. Maybe small anecdotes when they return instead? 🤷)
> 
> Next time is more about the precursors to the Rooks: The Clinkers, George, and how Louise fits in with all of this to be ready to meet the Twins in February 1868.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Birds were social beings, and their congregation brought hope and light and progress._
> 
> Louise, now with a name to hide her identity from anyone looking, puts her nose to the grindstone. Such a shame that it comes out bloody and tying her to this new name. 
> 
> [This chapter also includes TW for: Knives, blood, guns, death.]

Overnight, Louise did not sleep at  _ all _ . 

Not because she doubted her decision - far from it. Planning forwards, backwards, the big and small, the in between elements. Those pieces which stemmed beyond London, far from what she would live to see. Round and round in circles, thinking until her brain hurt. 

That early morning brittle, encompassing chill didn’t leave for  _ hours _ . With no central heating, there was little chance of a lie in – once Louise was aware of how  _ cold  _ the flat was, the birds chirping amongst the carriages and blue-collared masses heading to their next 12-hour shift, and the film of frost on the inside of the windows, there would be no chance to try and nod off again. 

Even despite all of that, she managed to fall asleep at some point because she was jolted awake by George throwing her coat in her face and dragging her out the door. 

“Five more  _ minutes _ ,” she whined.

“ _ Oh no, Songbird _ . You kept me up yesterday, so it’s my pleasure wakin’ you up today. Fair’s fair.” 

Louise was still yawning as they passed down back streets and alleys which slowly closed over. 

If she had thought the main road was quiet …  _ hoo boy _ . 

The Rookery, George’s base of operations was tucked away beneath train tracks and made from less than legal storage. The building had been hyped up with childish glee as they slipped and slid their way across Whitechapel. Down back streets, a nod to this person, a secret society beneath the covers of the wider interlocking story. 

Houses began to overlap, pressing close, before all of a sudden the street widened again. They moved from a quiet operative of two into the main city, before ducking back down behind a weathered fabric sheet. 

The reality of the den was a little … underwhelming. 

She knew that there would be few objects other than the essentials, as Charlotte’s apartment had been, so that did not surprise her. What  _ did  _ was the amalgamation of roles that it held; in one corner, a makeshift surgery, in the next it was filled with books and a blackboard. Small fire pits for warmth and light hidden strategically so the draft from outside would not douse them, with a handful of Londoners dwelling around each one. 

Noise rose as George passed them, but then hushed below the original level as they spied Louise in his wake. A few cast their eyes down at the sight of her marks, a whisper spreading across the room. 

Once inside, George’s showmanship was put to the test. A tour and introduction to the few - which felt more like him catching up with her shadowing the conversations. A couple of people were kind enough to shake her hand, including a pair she remembered helping vault the wall. One didn’t dare move away from the wall lined with beers and sofa: Louise noticed with a degree of glee that the same  _ bastard  _ who had scorned her at every turn arrived with a sullen expression, bruising beneath his eyes and a  _ clearly  _ broken nose.

He was furious and she was ecstatic. 

Louise stuck her tongue out as she was guided that way on her tour, and his anger turned downright nuclear. An obscene gesture with his hand was passed along, and he stormed to a back room. A wave of giggles plastered the room in his wake. 

“You’ll want to be nice to Brad. He says he has-” George said over his shoulder, twirling his fingers across. “- _ connections _ .” 

She snorted. “After the last two days, I think he needs to get his head out of his arse, and start being nice  _ himself _ .”

“Good luck gettin’ him to do  _ that _ .” 

Three others, two men and a woman were waiting as they finally made it to the seating area, waving them down and bunching up so there was space for their new party. With one seat too few, Louise decided to lean against the side of the armchair. It creaked like oaks in a heavy breeze as she settled in. A dripping leak from the ceiling continued filling a bucket piece by piece. 

“Most of them don’t seem to enjoy having a conversation with them when you’re standing right there, do they?” She snorted. 

“They ‘ave their false pretences in ‘ere. Even me when I started. It’s time you got one.”

Louise blinked. “Wait  _ what _ . Are you saying your name isn’t George?”

“Now ‘ave you ever seen Lottie call me ‘George’?” 

_ That was an excellent point _ . 

The shock must have registered on her face, the unease and degrees of weary panic that had her nauseous and adjusting her weight back onto her feet, perfectly primed to bolt for the way out again. 

Although it seemed that George was wise to what was going through her mind, as he diffused the tension as best he could. 

“‘M only pulling your leg!” he clapped her around the shoulder, her injured one  _ again _ , and accepted the bruising punch in retaliation. 

The laughing continued, albeit at her expense (though she did join in with the jesting towards the end), but the feeling of being out of the loop was lingering. She vaguely followed along with the discussions, nodding and mentally placing names to unseen faces until a familiar scrawny form barrelled into her, arms wrapping themselves as far as they would go around her waist. 

“... _ Charlie _ ?” the young boy was gently squeezing around her middle and she found him beaming upwards when she dared to glance at him. 

“I knew you’d make it! Arthur was saying all these  _ horrid  _ things but Mama shut him right up!”

Words failed her; a hand lay upon his head, her eyes staring but not quite  _ seeing  _ the child before her. Gone was the stream of snot and tears and screaming. In its place was giggles and a kid beaming like the sun, his freckles peeking through the ambient dirt of the city. 

He was jabbering on still, and Louise couldn’t find anything to say to him, merely nodding along where possible. It hit her then what she had done. 

_ She  _ had  _ made a difference. _

Charlie tugged at her right arm. 

“They’re  _ really pretty! _ Like someone drew lightning on your arm!” he said, turning her marred skin over in his hands. A toothy grin and a giggle brought a thought to her that Charlie  _ thrived  _ here in the open city, and she couldn't find it in herself to be irritated at him pointing out the marks. 

He stood with them, babbling about the markings and  _ you could colour them in and they would look so pretty!  _ Until his father arrived and took him away. Most of the time Louise sat there bewildered and essentially a deer in headlights, rolling her eyes at the giggling child waving over dad’s shoulder at her. 

“Now that we’ve freaked you out enough … any idea on that alias?”

“You called me something that day we escaped… why not that one?!” 

He snorted. “It’s too …  _ cute  _ for you.” 

“You  _ really  _ want me to punch you again, don’t you.” 

Guffaws, a few nods in encouragement. George even huffed and conceded the point.

“Okay, maybe you’re onto something there.”

The flutter of the doorway covering like leather wings on dribbled snowmelt, the tinkling of practise knives falling to the floor, and Charlie’s childish argument over a trivial preference, nothing was really standing out for a suitable nickname. Nothing that was once  _ her _ , anyhow. 

“I do like the idea of the birds, though.” she ran through several ideas in her head. Eagles? No, too collective. Owl? Too “wise” for her taste. Robin?  _ Maybe _ \- the links to Robin Hood could be made, but then again if she could work out the tangible link then inevitably someone else would. 

That link with another character though… interesting.  _ Wait _ .

“What about Wren?” 

* * *

**_March, 1867_ **

“Hiding in plain sight is a part of our work,” came the lesson one fresh autumnal morning. “Becoming one with the churning crowds, whether that is the less fortunate in Whitechapel, or brushing shoulders with the Lords and Ladies in Westminster. One must be able to flicker between each group as fluently as one speaks a language. 

“And I still stick out like a sore thumb, is what you’re saying?”

“Quite,” Percival confirmed. “Your mannerisms and body language has improved somewhat but the clothing may still catch a keen eye.”

“I’m not wearing a skirt and you can’t force me to.” 

As they walked from a meeting with his tailor, an old friend who had helped them out on more than one occasion and  _ sworn  _ to secrecy, Percival took the opportunity of the brief walk for a minor lesson. 

His wound was healing, slowly. A testament to his age, she had joked.  _ A lifetime of desk based adventures, _ he had cut back. His limp was more for effect and sympathy from his compatriots than an ongoing condition. Apparently lower ranks of Templars had been layering on their sympathies, which was a good thing? Louise wasn’t entirely sure it was, but he was sure they could find some use from it later. 

Hers meanwhile had scarred, whether the mark was the result of the cauterisation or the bullet or the process of removing said bullet which caused that, was not straightforward. But the different accesses to medical aid between them likely contributed something to the manner in which the mirrored injuries inscribed different journeys. 

“Back during the Crusades, when both Assassins and Templars were first known under those names, each order would have what is essentially a basic uniform.” he delineated. “Assassins wore white robes, simple enough to hide their weapons and blend in with the religious groups that littered the Holy Land. But over time it came to change, and the brotherhood started to have more individuality in the designs.”

“Started to? Or did enough people add their own spin that they were like school teachers and just-,” she dramatically sighed. “ _ Oh, go on then. Fine _ .”

“Probably a small element of both, I would assume.” His stoic mask, which he upheld beyond reason blending with the crowds, dropped for that moment. The angled cheeks were pulled upwards by a titling of his thin lips. 

The cane was beaten against the roof twice and they were away. In the area in which Percival had sourced his tailor, fewer people walked between their destinations, instead electing to hail a carriage of their own or hiring a hansom cab for a ride.

Watching a duo flag down a vehicle, Louise reflected. All in all, it wasn’t  _ that  _ different from what she was used to … just fewer Uber and Deliveroo riders to keep an eye out for. Just more pickpockets. 

Streets, even in the lull of mid-morning, were crawling at a snail’s pace. Monotonous rocking wheels made them drowsy, and Percival shifted. Having removed his hat when they had alighted, he slouched in such a way that the doorframe shadowed over his eyes, and grew as comfortable as he could. 

The plush seating definitely made more of an impression than rickety chairs and benches; Louise did not need telling in order to make herself comfortable. Scooching across so her leg was flush against the door, head between shoulder and window frame. 

“I do have one question,” she hummed. “That tailor doesn’t have a hidden room or two, does it?”

He smirked, eyes remaining closed. In this plush-lined basket he was the snake, warming themself in the sun. “Perhaps a  _ few  _ secrets those usual customers might get to know.”

Slow progress forwards as they dozed, until their rest was intruded upon when a figure slipped right into the horses pulling them along. The driver, thankfully with his reflexes, pulled back on the reins so as to prevent a trampled look to their leg. 

“What where yer goin’!” the cabbie screeched, undoubtedly pairing such with a few choice hand gestures. He collected himself after a moment, and Louise snorted a laugh as he addressed Percival as if the incident had never occurred. A true professional.

The man in question scrambled his way through dirt and excrement and disappeared down a side road. A glance over his shoulder, a thrown obscene gesture, and he was gone. Louise kept thinking about the pause as they passed over to the north of the Thames and away. 

Percival had the driver stop a few streets from Whitechapel; where neither could have a misunderstanding arise from a witness’ ability to misconstrue the seen truth. While he would disembark into a bookshop for a moment, she would jump into the nearby alleyway. A quick hop over a fence or two, and practically be at Henry’s front door. 

It was almost a running joke between them both that Henry would always have a cup of tea recently brewed and waiting whenever she arrived. 

The front door to the Curio Shop was always unlocked; latched after dark, but Henry was considerate and welcoming even when Louise felt intrusive. Kind smiles which lessened pain and utterly charmed the socks off anyone to get what he wanted. 

Mix in that sharp wit, Louise’s sarcasm and they became familiar friends in no time. 

A frankness she missed sharing with friends back home, casual gossip and informal banter over academia rather than which gang had territory for which pub. 

Her eyes drifted along the shelves as she walked up and down the empty shop floor. Toes found that chipping floorboard again as she paced, low buzz of a hum as they waited for the kettle to reboil. 

“Percy said  _ hi _ , by the way,” she called through. When she returned to the desk lining the back wall, she picked up and turned over piles of notes and folders he had left out. 

A few moments later and he walked through with their drinks, the grin and arched brow amused. “Paraphrasing?”

“I mean, he  _ did  _ drone on longer than he needed to.” 

Taking the drink offered to her, she leaned into its richer leaves.  _ Ahh, a proper cuppa _ . 

“Did you sleep at all?”

Pausing mid-mouthful, she lowered the pages to look at him. “Lottie put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“No, but she  _ did  _ mention the night shifts.”

“I can’t sleep. At least not when it’s dark. So I figured I’d be useful instead.”

Henry raised objections at that. Of  _ course  _ she was useful, if that is what she was intending. That’s not what she had meant (this time), and then divulged the information he was subtly not asking for. 

“What I  _ did  _ find, besides a shit ton of rats by the docks, is that they’re moving something for a  _ Tommy _ .”

“Thomas Morgan?”

“I never caught their surname. But whoever it  _ is _ , they’re moving something substantial. And  _ soon _ . In the next few weeks at most.” 

“Then we best be ready,” he said. “I will ask around. Perhaps Frederick might know something.” 

“He better do. George and I have got  _ nothing _ .”

“Tomorrow, head over to Lambeth.” He reached beneath the desk and swapped out the piles of papers on the desk for a new assortment, including one small sketch of clockwork. “I have some pieces to send over for fixing, and I believe they might be able to help solve your issue at the same time.”

* * *

The bliss of rest slipped past recognition with Jack Frost’s polar arrival permeating all corners of life. If Louise was that desperate for a night of deep sleep or a long rest through those early chills, then she needed to utterly exhaust herself the evening prior. It did not always stop the nightmares, though and sometimes Louise returned to that bench, walking through grasping hands which would not leave her alone in sleep or while awake. 

Henry and George gave her training, Percival advancing her pupilage on the rare occasion they could make contact.. Practical experience and learning in an environment where hands on with the people around her … being called  _ Wren  _ or nothing at all more often than she was called her old name. 

More bruises from falls, a mind reeling with plans and lessons both taught to and taught  _ by  _ her, and the odd pub crawl (and subsequent next-day hangover). Charlotte dealt with the scrapes and the pieces she didn’t want to bring up or solve herself. 

But work prevented her from thinking about  _ What if’s  _ and helped her to focus on what she needed to do. It ruffled the feathers a bit less. 

Eventually though, helpfulness got underfoot. When the jobs dried up, or sleep and sofa springs pressed too tightly, Louise hung around The Rookery. Putting items away, handing out food and giving opinions when George asked for them. Though, as she grew acquainted with the people, they found their green feathers brushing against short tempers.

Admittedly, Louise had been getting underfoot for a while, busying with work and missing the strain she was having on people. One Monday was proving particularly pulling on fraying nerves. The fact Louise hadn’t slept well the night before was not helping either. 

One too many offers to help Clinkers who did not want it and ...

“Just leave it, alright!”

The effect was immediate. Louise moved back as if she had been physically shocked, her face dropping the genuine help that was replaced. For a moment, it was consumed with a layer of hurt, but it went unnoticed with how quickly she choked down her pride and plastered the false neutral expression.

She nodded, even as heart and stomach dropped. Guilt.  _ I was only trying to help _ , she thought.

“They’re afraid, some of ‘em,'' George reassured her later, where she sat alone at the pub. “Yer a threat to somethin’ they’ve always known - change scares ‘em.”

Oh how she  _ tried _ . Never a day came with a thought of superiority, but Louise knew that envy of class differences was at play here. The fact that she was not stick-thin and emaciated like many of those malnourished, was a facet for envy among many.

Isolation became common, spending more nights tucked in the hidden Rookery or the woman sent on recon missions none wanted to be assigned. No more pubs. No more warmth. Just cold, a bare lonely ache that never left. And no more time to cry. 

When alone she let herself wallow in pity, but in public? Well, they would  _ never  _ see them break her down like that. 

Progress was slow. Fidgeting hands with no electronics to entertain them whilst idle twiddled loose threads. Staring at the rats that seemed to be  _ everywhere  _ as the claimed territory in the quiet low hours. Find the moon and constellations if it were a clear evening. Hum along to phantom songs and melodies as the music box of memory needed to be rewound.

Screaming foxes and alley cats scouring for food anywhere they could, loose papers having their corners fluttering in the breeze seeping off the Thames, whistles through unlatched locks all contributed to an unsettling atmosphere. There was no real reason why she was out there that evening; nobody had  _ asked  _ her to walk around and keep an eye on things, but … the chill was nice. 

London was oddly quiet and in that inhale would come the seeds of later chaos. Breathing life back into the reddened skin of her hands, Louise once again grew as comfortable as she could muster upon the perch of boxes and pallets. 

Sounds of glass breaking brought her back to reality. Flattening herself against the boards as much as possible, she dared to look around the corner hoping the shadows would protect her. 

Skittish and looking over his shoulder at the slightest flickering flame was Bradley, skulking as she was in the shadows. He was panting heavily, likely having run a fair distance, and there was a splattering of … something colouring his sleeves. The absinthe-green coat was conspicuous in its absence. 

A letter was pinned between two fingers, paper also discoloured. With another watch around, Bradley thrust it into a pocket. Big Ben tolled in the distance, and seemed perturbed by it, taking off down the road in the opposite direction as if late. 

That was … strange, to say the least. Not even mentioning that Bradley was  _ not  _ meant to be on duty that evening, and even less in this area of London. His remit was The Strand. She frowned into the wooden panels; did George know about this? Or rather, was Bradley working with George on this? 

A voice somewhere in the back of her mind said this was  _ not  _ going to end well. 

* * *

Gilded cages were only effective when they were invisible to their prey. But as soon as light reflected off the bars, and you could pretend all you want, trick yourself into ignorance, yet the shade would never dim again.

The final steps receded and her shoulders sagged; head fell back and eyes closed at the feeling of that coveted solitude.

One early morning, Louise, now more well-known under the alias she and George had derived, stood waiting for the weary conclusion of their mission. A raid under the cover of nightfall was meant to be simple; their guard would be down and it shouldn’t have taken more than a few hours. 

Six hours and counting, and there was still no sign of them. Louise volunteered to stay up on watch to give the rest time to sleep. The nightmares of the last few days had been rough, and until the sun rose her entire being would be jittery and anticipating a fight. Back  _ then _ \- or  _ sometime sooner than she would meet  _ \- when the stress was far too much for her, she would run South of the Thames into a museum or a last minute show, or for her societies. 

Hands itched for a more archaic weapon. Her Italian side cried out for the sword she had lost, her inner sportswoman, a bow or a racket. Welts and trained grooves from sports clubs at university were covered by nicks from knives, pinches from where she caught her finger reloading a gun, physically erasing a narrative. Bruised knuckles from hand-to-hand training, pulled away from the bloody wraps holding her hands together. 

One person, then two. Three, holding up a barely-conscious fourth, began to thread through from the street. Pushing away from the hidden nook along the wall, she raced over to carry them in. 

“Someone knew we was comin’ today,” one coughed. “They ‘ad traps set up for us all ready and waiting.” 

Swearing, and then more people filing through. They burst through the door and set off hours of activity. Louise was not entirely sure what happened. One moment she registered moving tables and running supplies over, the next she sat holding the hand of someone as they struggled over the final hurdle. 

She took one look at the surgery and  _ noped  _ to the other side of the room. Sure the scene there was not as streamlined as it was on the table, but she could work through it. Louise could deal with blood, so bandaged and fixed where she could, and fetching supplies when she couldn’t. 

Sometimes, a bullet wound wasn’t immediately lethal. That the wounded didn’t die straight away. Movies and fiction hid just how  _ gorey  _ and human it was - this hidden was low in London’s organs. 

One unlucky shot in the wrong place, of which there were more than anything to deem “safe” - would determine the suffering. Louise sat with him for  _ hours  _ before he finally stopped, her bloodied hand holding his up to the point George ordered his corpse removed. 

Hands hauntingly empty, she didn’t cry. Instead she sat for a moment, leaning forward on the unoccupied, bloodstained table, holding her jaw. Louise stared at the reflections of the gas lamps and stubs of candles in the water bowl. The clattering of a dropped knife had her observe the room to find constant movement. And so she followed it, tidying up, cleaning whatever she could, and handing over food and blankets. 

Hours later, the clock now passing over a full day without sleep, Louise  _ crashed _ . Zoning out and blinking beyond comprehension, she curled up on the sofa, picking at the dried blood that painted her hands. It was layers thick under her nails, one person, two, three. 

Tragedies happened everyday, a harrowing truth she had to get to know.  _ Fuck _ , she needed a good cry. 

A chipped mug sloshed into view; beneath calloused hands and its fading paint was tea being offered. Extended steam burned hands, grated from years of laundrettes and washer boards, the woman before her was uncomfortable. She kept glancing back to her friend behind her, who nodded encouragingly. 

She winked at Louise. And with that, she clapped the uneased woman on the shoulder and left them. 

“ _ Tiens _ .” The newcomer shifted her weight between her feet, and pushed the cup forward. Louise lifted into her hands. “ _ Merci _ .” 

“ _ Pas de problème,”  _ Louise stretched her legs out before them. “ _ De rien _ .” 

The woman’s face erupted into undiluted joy. " _ Tu parles français? _ ”

“ _ Oui. Mama était française.”  _ She patted the space beside her, and soon found herself with company. 

Her name was Bernadette, and she had taken to fifteen-hour shifts washing and drying laundry before finding the Clinkers. The two of them sat beside the other on the sofa that was stained and falling apart, and extended the olive branch to the other. When Louise finally left long after Bernadette herself had fallen asleep where she sat, the lingering glances were not so burning anymore. 

Two days later, at the usual scheduled time, Louise trudged through tumultuous April showers to meet Lottie in their office space. It was meant to be a simple lesson, an expected attendance of two, maybe three if someone were to mistake the room as another. 

Charlotte had mentioned that the weather might even drive off their other student, so Louise stopped by at a fish and chip shop a few streets away in The City. The owner knew Charlotte, owed her for something, and gave her the meal for free. It was meant to have one set of chips and one fish they were to share, but another was certainly slipped into the newspaper.

Her senses were more concerned with prising vinegar soaked chips between sticky papers, and so barely missed walking into someone. Her eyes widened at the sight of fifteen people lounging around the room, slouched across chairs, passing beers and waiting. 

“Well I definitely didn’t bring enough food,” she muttered aside, before turning to the rest. “What are you all doing here?”

“ _ Je veux étudier!”  _

Somebody stretched from the back and caught her eye. It was Jerry, the Scotsman she vaguely remembered from the warehouse trying to  _ swear  _ Blighters to death. “I ‘ave no idea what Bernadette just said - but we all ‘eard about you offering to teach people to read and write … and well, we assumed it was open to everyone.”

“Bernie was tellin’ people about it,'' another muttered from the back. “It don’t exactly sound  _ fun _ , but I figure it’s worth a shot at.”

“That’s what I said, and I meant it,” she smiled. “Not just maths and literacy if you wanted, too. I’m not much of a scientist but I know history and tales.” 

Charlie ran forward and took the food from her. “You’ll need more food though!” 

The next session had almost thirty people. The time after  _ that, _ almost fifty. Four weeks later and she had to persuade George to let her use the Rookery itself as it was the only place they owned or could easily use which could hold their significant numbers. 

One night a week became two, and some people flourished so marvellously they gradually began to help out themselves. Specific timed slots for maths or science or a kid’s history class, and it was almost flourishing as a school institution in its own right. 

Percival acted as the anonymous benefactor so it could continue running, and everyone could continue to learn without having to pay. As its benefits were explored, as people came and saw just how  _ good  _ this was - even in comparison to some paying schools in the area, with its informal affair and “for everyone” attitude, more flocked their way. 

Birds  _ were  _ social beings, and their congregation brought hope and light and  _ progress _ . 

During May came the first point when Louise really felt it had  _ made  _ a significant difference to their lives. Something that was noticeable beyond their circles. 

It was just before one evening history lesson, as people filtered into the room and found any space they could among groaning desks and benches. Charlotte, now closer to term, was seated near the side tables. When she saw how many people were coming from famished households she began to make small filler meals. Sandwiches and soups that were slowly being added to, until the entire affair became more of a free-for-all potluck for attendees. 

It became a tradition for people to bring what they could, that if you were starving or knew someone who was, you could pick and choose something to eat. The kids helped with the washing up afterwards if they were good - the warm clean water was a treat. 

Some Blighters even hopped in then and there; an impasse was reached, in these grounds no bloodshed would be found, and anyone who bent that rule found out about Louise’s temper first-hand.

_ Boy  _ how Louise had missed being in such a positive learning environment. Several people had commented on how she was almost jubilant upon leaving a good session or two, the smile gracing hardened skin and lifting a sunken heart just slightly. 

Tilly, a teenager barely older than Louise herself. Stretching to five-foot on good days (though don’t you  _ dare  _ say that to her face) she was gifted with an eye for detail that impressed and bewildered those she barely knew. 

“Wren!” she screeched, pounding through crowds of people shoving aside those who hadn’t already darted out of her path. 

Flinching forward a step, Louise spun round from where she had been debating with Bernadette to face them with eyes wide. 

“What? What happened?” 

To which Tilly held up a slip of paper,  _ beaming _ . “They said yes! I got the governess job!” 

* * *

With no eye contact upon passers-by, she was missed and entirely invisible. Friends and foe alike – and even the notoriously nosy Police patrols – gave her no issues.

Boxes and crates painted shadows on the walls and with the low-lying misty fog which clung around her ankles, the ambience did not help her worries. 

There was that little sickening sensation when the shadows jumped her way, how the smallest movement of leaves could really be an ambush beginning. Sunlight glistened on the Thames, the light ambience of its waves lost beneath the tempest of boats and it would have been a nice Easter break day if not for the job to do. 

George had been a buzz of energy, and pulled away anyone he could spare to meet on the bridge at Noon.  _ Bring as many weapons and crew you can manage _ , was the order, which sent notes sprinting across the city.  _ A Gang War’s comin’ _ - _ get prepared, Wren _ . 

There was a serene filter applied to her surroundings, as Henry had been slowly teaching her to control. The world was pushed back, the target the only thing that mattered. A train rumbled through the tracks overhead, pulling the thunder alongside its carriages. Louise became aware of how many people were nearby, and how that number was dwindling the longer they waited. 

Police on patrol peered at their gathering, but kept on walking, tipping hats and eyes cast down. As the minutes ticked away, fewer groups of blue bobbies bumbled their way. Public too; shops closed, and a few cautious onlookers curled around barriers and took bets on who they thought might still be standing in half an hour’s time. 

Skylights above them felt like eyes peering down; judging, criticising, all-knowing. The gods were here for a show. 

The Blighters greatly outnumbered and outgunned their opponents; the few gunmen in green - Louise included - were ordered by George to stand and defend from the rear, the one side of the street that the Blighters did not already swamp. 

A quick practice slash through the rainy air of the serrated edge, the mental image of how skin, bone and organ could catch and  _ tear _ –

That disgusting tingling sensation near the back of the throat, the one which preceded something worse.

The snap of a closing carriage door and Louise moved to look at George at the front. He was cracking his knuckles, placing the spare piece of bent railing swiped from the construction sites around the Underground lines around brass knuckles. Others reached for the deadliest knives - cleavers, what looked to be stolen bayonets - guns and anything else they could get their hands on. 

Several different brass knuckles had been offered to her and each refused, the gun and the kukuri Henry had lent to her. She had fathomed a gun from somewhere, it was just lying around in The Rookery and then it was suddenly hers, which made up for the fact Louise had elected to leave the gauntlet and hidden blade behind If it didn’t catch on something in such close quarters then it would certainly be recognised. 

Andy was near the back, readying to take cover until the conflict was over. Some of the others called his pacifism cowardice, but Louise saw the pride there. He wasn’t running when the bullets began to fly, merely waiting for his moment to strike. 

Away from them were the Blighters. And  _ Tommy _ , who cleared his throat and bellowed for their attention. His slicked back ashen hair drawing in the colour of the red sea behind him. “Shut up, all of you!” His voice was husky, rasping as they drew breath. As if years of chain smoking had taken its toll.

“Tommy Morgan,” the bespectacled and suited and uncomfortable mousey man proclaimed. “Has officially challenged George Langley and The Clinkers for domain and control over the borough of Whitechapel.” 

A ripple of murmurs from either side and snarls replied. They had all been woken early for this, and not  _ all  _ were walking away. Jeers were thrown, swears, a few shouts of encouragement by their audience; it reminded her of when she was in the crowd at sports matches, with rival fans showing support and enjoying the spectacle. 

“The challenge has been  _ accepted _ and will be sanctified immediately via a Gang War.” Upon finishing, he retreated back into the carriage from which they had deliberated. 

Guns clicked. 

“On my count! Three … Two …  _ One _ .” 

It was  _ brutal _ . Green gradually stained crimson, whether by blood or betrayal. Their numbers were whittled down, surely, and it cemented their defeat.

Several people fled, one Blighter shot between his shoulder blades as he tried to vault a fence too tall for him. 

Nearly everyone left - Tommy, George, Louise, Andy, and a handful of combatants on either side - were not leaving. Even at the lull where they could have this opportunity. Nobody pushed backwards. 

That did not, necessarily say, there was no movement at all. As Andy moved to help stem wounds and Louise caught her breath a fleck of green raised their hands and crossed No Man’s Land. 

“Brad…?  _ What are yer doing, ya dick?! _ ” George roared over. He reached out to restrain him, 

The sour-faced gunman drew his weapon, and raised it. 

In the shock George hesitated, and it cost him. 

Because Bradley  _ didn’t _ . 

Two green coats hit the ground. George, still wearing his, and Bradley, who tore off the phlegm-y shroud as if it were burning him at the touch. The bastard took one look at the blossoming wound and concluded the trade. As he passed Louise, she could see that he was  _ grinning _ . Bradley had planned this, and perhaps for some time. 

Clinkers spat at him as he paraded past. Thomas and his allies cheered his name, George gasping curses as he flopped like a fish on the cobbles. 

_ Breathe in, breathe out _ . Weeks of the band tightly winding inside her snapped. 

“Hey!”

“The fight’s over. We own this now, bitch.”

She growled, seething as she peered over to Thomas. “ _ You  _ said that this fight was ‘last one standing’. Well, the last time I checked, you aren’t the only person still on their feet.”

He pounced, snarling at who he assumed would also be prey. But his power did not contend with her speed. She could duck out of the way, but even the grazing punch to her face left watering eyes and 

_ One bullet left _ . 

Tommy laughed, the action displaying his missing teeth. Distracted… and that was all the opening she needed in order to dispatch him. 

She spat to the floor and snarled. “We. Will. Not. Go.” 

The hooked kukri in her hand like a talon, the untamed mane of hair and look of what could only be described has undiluted fury in their direction … well they only saw one port of call. 

The Blighters fled, leaving Thomas’ cooling corpse alone in the street. One even dared to pick his pockets as they went. The gun was snatched, as well as something from around his neck. Louise barely caught the red cross glistening as it was stuffed into a pocket. 

But finally, the Blighters  _ left _ them. A train clunked across tracks and there was a distinct lack of … human noises. 

_ Oh shit _ .  _ Oh no _ . 

Three steps away, Andy was still beside George. Hands were  _ coated  _ but they were not the frantic movement they should have been. She sank to her knees on his other side, refusing to touch him. His eyes were already closed, blood spewed from coughs now a red drool, chest still. 

“...is he?” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. It choked her, this one  _ central  _ figure whom they all rallied behind, now lifeless and cold, ragdolled on the floor. George’s overbearing stature, previously defiant and strong, sagged and just felt … hollow. 

Andy shook his head without a word. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she hissed. “Is there anywhere we can move them too? They can’t be left there.” 

“I might know someone. He can get a few out of here-” he stared over her shoulder. “-but this many? It’s a big ask.”

Thunder rumbled on, the trains and the carriages carried on with their journeys, and  _ then  _ the whistles began. Rattles snapped and police swarmed like sharks in the ocean. 

Most of the Clinkers, and any Blighters still there licking their wounds, turned and ran. Two of three right into the iron clasp of cuffs. It was every man or woman for themselves. Get  _ out _ , if you can. Reconvene once the heat has been drawn away from the area. 

So why wasn’t she running with them?

Explaining her arrest to Percival (because someone would  _ definitely  _ let something slip) would not be amusing, and she was in no mood to sit through another of those lectures. 

_ Once everyone else has gone _ . Then  _ I’ll move _ . 

“ _ Wren _ , we can back slang it through ‘ere,” came the shout from a direction she could not see; steps away, a door was thrown open with breaking glass and shrieks of unfortunate patrons 

Her own gun was empty, the knife somewhere beyond the bubble of things that  _ mattered  _ now. 

Louder rattles, truncheons and commands.  _ Stop!  _ They were ordering.  _ Don’t you dare go! _

But they were the last ones left. And then there was Andrew motioning her to get up and rise to her feet. Numb, exhausted hands dropped the gun, the gravel biting into grazed palms, as she let him guide her through closed shops and safe houses. 

* * *

There was no precedent for Clinker funerals. In most circumstances, Blighters would rarely leave anything to bury, or anyone to bury them in those worse case scenarios. George himself had told of the stains of those who rubbed the cat the wrong way, irking Maxwell Roth’s infamous temper, and had been found washed up on the banks of the Thames or protruding from shallow pits days later. 

So when Louise suggested a real burial for those who fell during the ambush, there was a mixed reception. Many were scared away from the idea, as people are want to do when faced with change that they never understood. Several feared a reprisal by redcoats who would shoot them like fish in a barrel whilst they mourned. 

Yet she was adamant. They would  _ not  _ be left for the carrion’s dinner, nor would they be ‘donated’ to someone in a back alley and made a mockery of in the name of science. They deserved respect in what they wanted: to be left in  _ peace _ .

People were hesitant to talk with them. Now their loss of George was making the rounds, Blighters and others unaligned with either party were taking advantage. Jumping ship to better deals, undoing his legacy - the very good she was trying to maintain. 

It was being scared out of them by thugs in red coats. But after what was nearly a fruitless search, there was  _ someone  _ who offered to help them. 

No names were passed between her and the digger of the pit, no eye contact. It was one of their conditions; he would do it but they would not know who did. And for an inflated price. 

A Pauper’s mass grave, it’s all he could do. No grave stone, no physical record of who was there - Louise had thought about slipping a piece of paper into George’s coat. One by one, the nine Clinkers who had been recovered from the scene were carried over and placed inside. 

_ Silence _ . Final rights were abstained - none of them were religious men, and George certainly would be having his own words when he got to his designated place. It was slippery and muddy and felt evermore like a battlefield. But painstakingly slowly, the deed was done; no other Clinkers, those who had exerted whatever they had left, wanted to stay for this final act. So she let them go, back home, back to the pubs. 

But she remained there, in the rain, ‘til she was soaked to the bone to ensure each was buried with due care and attention. Their “assistant” began to bury them, one shovel at a time. 

Head bowed, Wren let the downpour wash her clean. Part of her wondered when she’d grown accustomed to wearing other people’s blood.

* * *

Frederick was right. Henry  _ was  _ a good person; haunted, as they all were, but his heart was good. She learned quickly that the Curio shop in Whitechapel was his haven. A place to recharge against the chaos of the world outside its doors.

It was no wonder then, that she headed there. 

Hair plastered against her skin, sniffling and freezing through the final moments of daylight, and sank into the sofa with a whine in greeting. 

In the months since that January evening in the kitchen, their friendship grew into mutual cares as well as goals. Louise would make sure that Henry was at least eating on a regular basis, and he made sure she felt human again. Besides sourcing the oddities for the Curio Shop, Henry’s manner of sanity was to do with books. A small fascination with translations, too - whether between two languages, or one and an object. There was a loved copy of  _ The Language of Flowers  _ sitting beneath the desk, its broken spine showing it had been opened and closed and opened time and time again. 

When she dragged herself away from the burial, soaking from the rain and barely awake with her adrenaline leaving, the tea was thrust into her hands. Cup after cup as she dried off, wisps of hair sticking up at all angles. 

She sniffed, discreetly wiping her nose on a sleeve, before standing from her bundle of blankets. They fell from her shoulders, pooling on the floor. Louise picked them up, folded and placed back on Henry’s desk. Next she moved to help clean up after their tea break, Henry’s meal. 

_Autopilot_ , one foot then the other. The two worked through tidying the shop - sweeping broken glass from the floorboards. _Wait had someone tried to break in_ _as payback_? 

_ No _ , Henry had assured. He was rebuilding and some glass panels had broken in the removal. 

The light hand on her shoulder, the questioning look she sent him that was answered with directions. 

The upstairs library was far more plush than the downstairs office. While that was haphazardly engulfed by nicknacks whose sole purpose was to fill space (and later pockets), here each addition was perfectly cultivated. 

Louise felt as if she was intruding in somewhere private and personal. 

Books littered any free surface, and all of the shelves. A few bottles clustered in one small corner space, a gas lamp, another desk. A plush carpet which sank beneath each step across. 

Her coat near the fire to dry, and boots kicked so the laces themselves reached out to the flames, and Louise sank into the sofa. Henry had left a blanket there, and once she dried out her coat it could be bundled into a pillow. 

Not that it was needed, of course. With adrenaline exhausted, she barely registered her nodding head before she was under. 

A dreamless sleep, for that she was thankful at least. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps laptop keyboard* This bad boi can fit so much plot into it!
> 
> This is the chapter where I just accepted that a 6000 word count is going to be short now! But two chapters in two months! 
> 
> I also infused a couple of little nods here and there from things I know from life (write what you know, eh?). The "offering to help to the point of annoying someone" is another of those elements inspired by my high school life, having offered to help an old friend with the set up for an event to the point she shouted at me to walk away. Beth (I know you're not reading but hey) that wasn't cool and I've learned since then - here's the long overdue apology 💚
> 
> I wanted to have another scene with Charlotte here, and it was meant to be the final scene - but with the word count getting so egregious I had to cut it; it's now appearing as the first scene for Chapter 8, along with plenty more Charlotte content. (Along with some long-awaited arrivals) 
> 
> Weak tea? That's likely due to the fact that, in the 19th Century, lower classes would buy already-used tea leaves as they were significantly cheaper. 
> 
> And why "Wren" as a nickname? Well to tell you the truth, I had a bit of a Witcher fascination when I began writing this over a year ago (!!!!) So it is a nod to Renfri from the show - a strong woman who is seen as a monster by her enemies. But the allusions to the bird also work too! When looking at tales about the wren's name, one calls it "the king of birds" when translated as it beat all other flying creatures in a competition to see who could fly the highest. And how could such a small (but shouty) bird do such a thing?
> 
> It hitched a ride on an _eagle_!
> 
> As for Bradley and Tommy? A super early draft (as in, an interpretation of the fic from FIVE YEARS AGO) had an almost sitcom arch enemy for Louise to contend with ... Bradley is just the more updated one here. And we have definitely not seen the last of him. 
> 
> Next chapter - finally FINALLY getting some Syndicate plot content into this AC Syndicate fic 😂
> 
> [Please let me know if there's any TW people would like adding where relevant, or any that I might have missed!] xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I am not dead - five years on since I last started fanfic of this length, and nearly *three* years since the last chapter was posted for it, we have another project.
> 
> This one has been sitting at the back of my mind for some time now, and it's only just now that I have the time to really put the time and effort into writing it into existence. So here it is Breaking Mind-Forged Manacles. The first several chapters might take place in late 2019/early 2020 but the vast majority of this will be taking place in between the 1860s-1870s London with everyone's favourite British Twins. 
> 
> And the fic title? A reference to the second stanza of William Blake's poem titled "London" (it's one of my favourite pieces of Romanticism poetry and the theme fit almost perfectly with Syndicate) which is the extract in the opening notes to this chapter!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this early foray into a new piece - please let me know what you think is going to happen next! Any far-reaching headcanons or theory? I'd love to hear them!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at estel-of-the-eyrie.tumblr.com as well as here :)


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